The Woman at His Side
by Samwise221b
Summary: "I stay because of one reason now. I stay because of you." Elfie Stegerson moved to London to break away from her controlling mother & dull lifestyle. What she got was a life with Sherlock Holmes. Now she's chasing criminals alongside the consulting detective and his trusted doctor, but can she juggle her new relationship & still have the home life she's always wanted? Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1: London

_**So this is my first fanfic and I hope others enjoy it. There will be a case and all that jazz later on but I had to write an intro first. Please feel free to comment, follow, etc. It means a lot. **_

_**I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's cannon**_

_Chapter 1: London  
_

London.

The bleak and grey sky, the wind nipping at my cheeks, the streets full of taxis and people running to get from here to there, the noise of car horns and people shouting.

It can be so boring sometimes.

Folding my arms atop the cold metal railing of the balcony, I lean forward, to watch the midday world bustling below me. There's a couple reading a map on the corner, arguing and pointing in different directions: first vacation together, perhaps? A businessman is running down the block, attempting to flag down a taxi with one hand and pressing a cell phone to his ear with the other: Someone's late to work. Adjusting the collar of my coat so that it protects my cheeks from the cold wind, I head back inside my apartment, dissatisfied with the boring people outside.

I don't belong in a place like this; I don't belong anywhere really. I'm a wanderer, a traveler, and an adventurer. A girl whose only true joy in life is when her adrenaline is pumped up and she's in the middle of what seems to be utter chaos. One would think that a busy city like London would fit that description, but alas no; London does not hold as many adventures as one may think.

I close the balcony door, plop down on my couch and stare intently up at the ceiling. I am bored beyond all reason. I've been in London for about a year and a half, settled into this apartment that my family has kindly paid for, got a decent job Monday-Friday at the history museum doing what I went to school for and yet, I can not seem to find anything of real interest to do.

Is it I being too stubborn? Am I setting my standards of "fun" too high? Maybe this city could offer me some sort of an adventure, but I'm closing my mind to it.

Finished with the ceiling, I head to my small kitchenette and make myself a cup of tea-because what else do you do when there's nothing to do in England-and check my phone: 3 new voicemails. As I wait for the water to heat up, I set my phone on the counter and hit the speaker button and let the messages play:

"_Hello Fee, its your mother. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Call me when you get the chance; we have a lot to talk about. I'll be in the office until about 8, which most likely is at some ungodly hour for you so you won't call. Any matter, please call when you get the chance. Love you! Ta!"_

Delete.

My mother: the successful, American business woman whose only daughter decided to pack up and move to England instead of inheriting the family business of real-estate. I highly doubt that she was calling just for a mother/daughter chat. She probably wants to try and convince me to come home and work for her. Nope. Not happening. I'm not that bored. Next message:

_"Elfie, it's Hattie! I just wanted to call and let you know that the dress appointment is at 2:30 on Sunday and that you'll have to bring whatever shoes your going to wear with you. Don't bring those god-forsaken boots with the zipper up the side. They are not proper bridesmaid shoes. Black leather does not go well with pink chiffon! Hahaha, you know I'm just giving you a hard time…but seriously, hon', don't wear the boots. When I get home, we can go through your shoes. You must own a pair that's not black. Okay, bye!"_

Oh, Hattie, you always have such a way with words.

My best friend in the entire world, and my flat mate, is the daughter of a big US oil distributor. We met in college back home in California: she's journalism major and I'm an ancient world history major. We decided to move to England together right after we graduated because we wanted to live adventurous lives of our own. Yeah, that didn't really happen like we thought, but luckily, for her, Hattie found a man. Her fiancé is Mr. Robert St. Simon of…You know, I'm not quite sure what he does. I think he's just the son of a rich family, old money perhaps, and doesn't really have to work. They met at some media thing. Hattie's happy so I'm happy for her, but also little sad because she'll be leaving me alone in this apartment. Yes it's already paid for and I don't have to worry about money, but I'll be alone. Is that selfish of me? Yeah, it is a bit, but if I'm on my own, then why stay in London. Gah, I don't want to think about that now. Last message:

"_Elfie, it's John Watson-Yes, I'm on the phone with her-I wanted to let you know-Stop interrupting Sherlock-we are on the way to-Yeah, I'm leaving a message. Wait give me back the ph…Elfie, John was being slow. We will be at your flat in a few minutes. Be ready to leave when we arrive."_

"What the hell?" I mutter, staring down at my phone in confusion. As if on cue, there is a loud, hurried knock at the door. I instantly perk my head up.

_Knock-knock-knock_

Excitement kick starts in my body.

_Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock_

My heart starts to pound in anticipation. Finally something to do!

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Forgetting all about my tea, I rush to the door and swing it open. Without so much as a 'hello' or a 'good afternoon', a tall, pale blur of a dark coat storms into my apartment.

"About time," he bellows in his baritone voice, "I was about to knock the door in."

"Nice to see you too," I say, a little annoyed but still happy to see him.

Yes, him.

Sherlock Holmes: London's (and apparently the world's) only consulting detective.

We met almost a year ago. Sherlock had come to the museum in search of someone who could identify a jade hairpin from China that he and his companion, Doctor John Watson, had come across. I forget the minor details of the case, but I know it had something to do with graffiti in a bank and on one of our prized statues at the museum, a Chinese gang and the death of that poor girl who use to run the tea ceremony exhibit-She was nice, it was a tragedy.

Anyway, my boss had directed Sherlock to me and I was happy to oblige. When I had introduced myself to him and John, Sherlock immediately put me to work, demanding every fact I had ever learned about the Chinese and their ancient monarchies; He spoke so quickly that it was hard to catch every word. As I told him and John what I knew, Sherlock just stared and listened. His eyes were constantly reading every inch of my face as if to try and find out my life story. It made me blush and almost loose my concentration; those eyes were mesmerizing, unlike any I had seen before.

After what felt like hours of me giving facts and Sherlock just listening intently, he finally spoke: "Well done, Ms. Stegerson. You've just helped stopped a Chinese smuggling gang from brutally murdering Dr. Watson and myself." I was speechless and a bit confused as he walked out my doors in a rush, without so much of a goodbye.

After that case had wrapped, I thought I would never see him again. This mysterious man had burst into my life with an interesting puzzle and then just left in a flash. It made me sad, but I knew I was just over reacting. He doesn't even know me, so why should I care about him? It was a stupid crush. However, Sherlock kept coming by my office to ask me to help him with minor details in his cases: things like _'When was this painting finished?' _or_ 'Can you tell me how this statue was found?'_ I later learned that Sherlock had deemed me a "useful ally", which John explained to me meant that he enjoyed my company as well as my knowledge. I guess that was a complement.

We became close, well as close as anyone could be to Sherlock, as each case went by. We stopped calling each other "Mr. Holmes" and "Ms. Stegerson" after our 3rd case, and started talking about our different interests after the 6th one. Soon, I was spending almost all my free time with Sherlock: sometimes on a case, sometimes not.

"I just got your message." I say, closing the door behind him, "Where's John?"

"In the taxi," Sherlock replies, turning off the hissing kettle, "we need to get a move on so I opted to come up here alone. Why are you not dressed? I told you to be ready!"

"I didn't expect you to be so soon. Let me change." I say gazing down at my outfit: jeans and a grey sweater apparently aren't a suitable outfit for Sherlock Holmes.

"No time." He snaps, dashing about the flat; his large coat whisking behind him like a cape as he passes by me, "Where's your bag?"

"Um, in my…"

"Found it!" he shouts from my bedroom.

"Hey! Wait a minute! Get out of there." I shout, running down the small hall to my bedroom. Sherlock is standing in the middle of my extremely messy bedroom with my grey trench coat strewn over his shoulder and my green satchel in his hands. "You can't just burst into a woman's room and start picking up her stuff." I grumble, snatching my items from him.

"Well if you'd hurry up, I wouldn't have to have gone in your room." He replies, adjusting his signature blue scarf, "You should've had all of your things and been ready to go. Perhaps, you could've closed your bedroom door if you didn't want your company to go in here."

"I didn't know I'd be having company." I say in my defense, sitting on my bed and putting on my shoes, "and, anyway, you haven't even told me where we are going."

"The lab, I need to look over some samples I found near a body at the train station. It's a long process, lot of samples, will probably take all night. Prepare yourself for the long haul."

I pause mid zipper of my boot and look up at him: "Wait, why am I even coming? You don't need my help with lab work."

"Yes I do. Hurry up." Sherlock quickly states, heading for the door. "Hope you've got a pen on you. I may need you to take down some notes."

"What? Wait, Sherlock!" I call out, but he is already down the hall and out the front door. Good Lord, he's fast.

Quickly pulling on my grey coat and leaving a quick note for Hattie that I won't be home until later tonight, I dash out of the apartment to catch up with the consulting detective. As if he were waiting for me, Sherlock is standing in front of the lift door, tapping his fingers impatiently against the buttons.

"Did you grab a pen?" he asks, finally pressing the down button. Catching my breath, I glare at him and shake my head.

"Sherlock, why are you really taking me along?" I ask

He turns his head to face me and gives me that half mouth smirk of his: "Because you're bored."

I look at him, confused as to how he could possibly know that, but then roll my eyes. Of course he knew I was bored, he knows everything. He can probably see it in the follicles of my hair or in the chipped off bits of my nail polish or something outlandish like that. It's annoying but at the same time, strangely attractive.

"You are unbelievable sometimes, you know that?" I say with a smile.

"Yes, people constantly remind me that I carry that trait." He replies. We give each other another quick glance and begin to chuckle. My heart is pounding again and I bite my lower lip. My nerves are going haywire the longer I stare at him. Luckily, The lift opens up and we step inside. Sherlock presses the lobby button and the silver doors glide shut.

"So," I say, leaning against the back wall, "do you want to fill me in on why you're in such a rush?"

"I told you," he says, "I need to look at some samples in the lab. They won't stay fresh for long. It's obvious."

"Oh, of course." I reply, rolling my eyes, "Sorry, I should have known."

He gives me a questioning look: "Sarcasm?"

I nod: "You're getting better at identifying that."

Sherlock nods and looks me over intently; "You haven't showered yet today." He states, in a matter of fact manner.

"You didn't give me time." I reply, tucking my dark hair into my brown cap, "and I didn't plan on going anywhere today."

"Yes, I was hoping that would be the case when I told John to call you." He says, gazing up at the ceiling.

"So, wait," I say, " you thought, _'I have samples to test. I'll get John to call Elfie so she can take notes for me all night'_ and assumed that I'd just come along?"

"Yes." He replies, steepening his hands under his chin, "Does that bother you? You can gladly go back to your flat and drink your tea if you think that to be a more suitable way to spend your evening."

"No, no, no, I'm…I'm grateful you thought of me." I stammer, looking down at my hands, "But, um, why can't John just take notes for you?"

"You have faster and cleaner hand writing than he does." He states, now deep in concentration on the mirrored ceiling.

"Oh." I mumble, shuffling my feet. "No other reason then?"

"No." he replies, dryly.

"Okay." I look up at him to see if there is an answer in his face, but he is completely lost in the world of the ceiling. "Well," I say, admitting defeat, "That's-that's great then."

"You have excellent penmanship," he says, furrowing his brow "isn't that a compliment?"

"Yes but…"  
"But?"

"Forget it. It's fine. Thank you for the…compliment." I look down at my feet and sigh; it was worth a shot, Elfie.

Silence.

This is the longest lift ride of my life and its only 5 floors to the lobby from my flat.

Finally, Sherlock turns his head to look at me. "Also," he goes on, "he's apparently going out on a date tonight and can't stay."

"Oh?" I say, raising an eyebrow and looking at him intently. His eyes meet my gaze and he starts to panic.

"Yes, he…uh…he said that he already told me about it, but I don't recall having that conversation." The now nervous consulting detective spits out rather quickly, returning to looking at the ceiling. "And besides, I don't really care. I enjoy having the flat to myself for the evening. Not that I will be alone tonight since you are joining me. I do plan on bringing some of my work back to Baker Street after the lab, by the way, and I was hoping…no…I was wondering…I-Well, it's no matter." His regularly pale cheeks have a pink tint to them now and a small bead of sweat is trickling down his forehead.

Ah, now I understand what he really means by bringing me along.

"Sherlock Holmes," I say, moving a bit closer to him, "are you asking me to join you at the lab because you knew I had nothing else to do today or is this your way of getting me to stay at your flat tonight?"

"Bit of both." He replies in a soft whisper and closing his eyes. I feel my cheeks go red and I smile. He's like a child when he shows emotion: so naïve and so sweet. It's a side of him no one ever sees. Well no one, but me.

Very gently, I stand on my tiptoes and place a soft kiss on his cheek. "Well, then, I accept the invite." I whisper in his ear.

"Thank you, Ms. Stegerson," Sherlock sighs as he places his forehead against mine.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes." I reply with a giggle.

Just as the lift comes to a stop, Sherlock gently places a soft kiss on my lips. I gladly return the gesture.

_Ding!_

The silver doors glide open as his lips part with mine.

"Right, come along then. There is work to be done." Sherlock says, whisking me out of the lift and out into the chilly London air.

"Whoa, hold on! You're going to knock me over." I say with a laugh, holding on to my hat, "I'm not as fast as you."

"Learn to be." He says, pulling me in close and passionately kissing me. Lost in the moment, I wrap my arms around his neck and relax my body into his hold.

London; loud busy, boring London.

I stay here for many reasons: work, a place to live. But my main reason is here, holding me close.

I stay for my Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2: Looking at the Unseen

_**Thank you to those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed. Here is chapter two.**_

_**Once again, I do not own Sherlock or Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's cannon.**_

_Chapter 2: Looking at the Unseen_

"Oi, love birds! I thought we had to get move on!"

Finally pulling apart, Sherlock and I turn to see John, shouting out of the window of the taxi, waiting patiently across the street. I gladly wave back, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes and snatches onto my hand to lower it.

"Don't encourage him," He grumbles, "otherwise he won't stop."

"Stop what?" I ask with a laugh.

"You know." He mutters, adjusting his scarf.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," I say as we walk toward the taxi, "it's just a bit of playful teasing. You can't let that bother you so much."

"I know," he replies, "It's only…I don't appreciate it. Honestly, must he always say something about us every time we're together? I don't make a comment every time he has one of his dates over."

"Yes you do." I tease, placing a soft peck on his blushing cheek. The corner of his mouth lifts up in a half smile as he gives my hand a quick squeeze. He knows I'm right; he comments of everything and everyone, especially if it's John's girlfriends:

_ "John, don't bother taking her to dinner. She's too self conscious about her weight…or lack there of."_

_ "She hates those earrings, John. You should've bought something that won't draw attention to her face, not that anyone would really look at it."_

Yeah, he can be a bit rough.

Sometimes, I think he's jealous of those girls because they are stealing "his" John's attention, like a child who doesn't want to share their favorite toy. One of these days John's going to find a woman to settle down with and Sherlock won't know what to do with himself. He may very well go mad…or burn the flat down…or both. Either way, I'm going to have to be there to pick up the pieces. I may be Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend, but I could never be his John Watson.

"Evening Elfie." John says as he opens the car door for us, "Sorry about all this. Sherlock was being so childish and insisted that I call you.

"Hi John." I say, climbing inside and giving him a quick side hug, "and don't worry about it. I wasn't doing anything today anyway."

"You sure?" John asks, "He told you it was just lab work, right? It's pretty dull. You've could've told him no, he can take it."

"Between you and me," I reply in a mock whisper, "I don't think he can." The two of us laugh, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes and slams the door shut.

"Really, you two can be so juvenile." He grumbles.

"Look whose talking." John shoots back with a smirk.

"Ooo, he's got a point, there, darling." I giggle, squeezing Sherlock's hand playfully.

Mumbling something to himself, Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the driver: "St. Bartholomew's Hospital, please. Quick as you can." John and I exchange a glance and just chuckle.

Since joining he and Sherlock on their cases, John and I have become very close; he's like a brother to me. John is both tough and caring at the same time. Not to mention, he is extremely quick witted. He's a 'tell-you-like-it-is' kind of guy who will also be the shoulder you need to cry on. But, I think it's his bravery that I'm most in awe of. Anyone who has the guts to stand up and risk life and limb for their country has my respect, hands down.

I am beyond fascinated with his military career, although he doesn't talk about it much. All I can get out of him is that he saw things that no should ever have to see and that he had been shot in the shoulder. _"I don't want to bore you."_ He always tells me, but I assure him that I wouldn't be bored. I think he just doesn't want to linger on the past. We're alike in that way.

"So I hear you've got a date tonight, John," I tease, once the cab reaches St. Barts, "What's her name? When did you meet? Give me the details."

"Well, do you remember Helen?" John says, trying his best not to blush, "I bumped into her the other day at Tesco and we got to talking. She's willing to give us another chance."

"She feels bad for what happened between the two of you and wants to make up for it." Sherlock shoots out, "Don't get ahead of yourself, John, she's not worth it. If her intentions were genuine, she would've called you, but instead she felt then need to accept your dinner invitation out of pity not-" I quickly elbow Sherlock in the side to get him to shut up.

"Ow! What was that for?" he asks, completely oblivious to the fact he has just insulted his friend. I give him a glare and nudge my head toward John. "What?" he asks again.

"Be nice." I whisper between my teeth. Sherlock scowls at me but then relaxes his expression when he sees John's hurt one.

"John, I…I am sorry." He sighs, "I was only-"

"No, no, it's fine." John replies, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "I know how you are…you prick." The two friends exchange a quick glance and smile.

"Right, now, there's work to be done." Sherlock says, taking me be the hand, "John, pay the driver. Elfie and I will meet you inside."

"Right." John replies, pulling out his wallet, "Be right there."

I shake my head in disbelief as we head inside. They really are a mystery, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. One could spend an entire year with them and in the end still wonder why they haven't killed each other yet. Seriously, I don't think Hattie and I are even as close as these two are and we've known each other for 6 years! These two have only been roommates for 18 months! To be honest, I don't try to make sense of their friendship. They go together like a headache and drugs; Oddly, they just fit.

Once inside the lab, Sherlock tosses off his coat and scarf, pulls out a small brown bag from his jacket pocket and situates himself at a bench. I watch him as he carefully pours out the bags contents on to a tray and shifts it around to even it out. Curious, I drop my satchel beside him and look over his shoulder.

"Dirt?" I ask, unbuttoning my coat.

"Yes from under a bench at the tube station." He replies, setting up clots of the dirt on glass slides, "Our victim was found early this at Paddington Station this morning with a single gunshot wound to the chest; clean shot, through and through. Killer cleaned up the scene very well, made it appear like the victim's body had moved there. Lestrade seems to think that he was in fact killed elsewhere, but I can prove that he was shot at the station."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"How do I do my job, darling?" he says, rolling up his sleeves, "I study the obvious. This dirt contains the pieces I need to close this murder: Pieces that are hidden to the average person's eye. But not mine. I can see what normally goes unseen. I need to find the gunpowder residue and particles of the victim's blood. It'll take me a while to go through it all, surely, but I'll find what I'm looking for."

"Huh," I say, folding my arms across my chest, "I didn't know that I had quite the catch for a boyfriend."

Sherlock looks at me and curves his mouth into a proud smile; "Here," he says, pulling over a stool, "take a seat."

I toss my satchel and coat down onto the table and do as I'm instructed. Sherlock sets one of the prepared slides onto the microscope in front of me and situates himself behind me. "Now," He instructs, setting his hands firmly on my shoulders, "Look very carefully. Tell me what you see."

"Okay." I take a deep breath and peer through the lens. The dirt colt looks fuzzy and…well, quite frankly it just looks like dirt: Brown. Grainy. Dull. Dirt. "I…I don't see anything different." I say, slightly ashamed that I may have just disappointed Sherlock, "Its just dirt."

Very slowly, I feel Sherlock's hands fall from my shoulders and glide down my arms until they rest gently on my hands. His touch is soft and comforting.

"Try this." He whispers, resting his chin on my shoulder. Letting him guide me, I allow Sherlock to place my fingers around the knobs on the side of the microscope to change the focus. Carefully, we turn them together. "Now, look." He coaches on in my ear, "Really look. Don't think about the obvious. Just look."

I look through the lens again and really concentrate. With each turn of the knobs, the image becomes clearer and clearer. Suddenly, the image is perfect: "Hold it." I say, getting a bit excited, "That's it! I can see it!" Our fingers freeze and I take in all that I can see.

There are small particles of different shades of brown, black and white (crushed rocks of course, what else is dirt made of?), but some of them have specks of red on them. They're tiny, miniscule, specks: completely hidden from the naked eye. They are dark red, like crimson. They almost seem like droplets from a paint stain.

So, a crimson stain that looks like spilled paint.

But why would there be spilled paint in dirt from the train tracks? That would seem unnatural.

Wait…

"Blood!" I exclaim, waving my hands in excitement, "I can see blood! It's tiny, but I can see it! Sherlock, I see it!"

Sherlock gives off his deep baritone laugh and gently turns me to face him. "Now your like me." He says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, "Observing the obvious."

"Don't get ahead of yourself." I reply, placing my hands on his chest, "Those specks are far from obvious and besides, I could never be like you." Slowly, I rise up on my tiptoes to rest my forehead against his, "No one could be like you, Sherlock Holmes." I whisper, cupping his face in my hands.

"Same to you," He whispers back, pulling me in close by the waist, "My darling, darling girl." Slowly, Sherlock moves his hands up and down my back. My heart starts to pound. He only calls me "his darling girl" in our most intimate moments. My eyes close and we kiss, passionately.

The world starts to melt away.

No lab bench. No microscopes. No mysterious blood speckled dirt.

There is only my Sherlock and I, completely wrapped in each other's arms.

"So, I guess I don't have to ask if you if Elfie will be staying over at the flat tonight." We freeze mid kiss and the moment is lost. We quickly turn our heads to see John leaning in the doorway with a big smile across his face. Ah, yes, good ol' John Watson to enter at the perfect time. I can't help but chuckle while Sherlock, on the other hand, keeps his eyes closed and turns away.

"Hey John," I say, a tad embarrassed.

"Hey yourself." He says, walking over to us. Sherlock quickly slips away from my and walks toward the end of the bench. "Was I interrupting your, 'experiments'?" John teases, pointing at the microscope, "The, uh, dirt was rather revealing was it? You two felt the need to snog for a bit in celebration?"

"Oh, shut up." I say, playfully hitting his arm.

"Yes, John, please do." Sherlock snaps, taking us both by surprise. "Unless you have something useful to contribute, I would suggest that you leave the matter alone and not speak of it at all for the remainder of the time you are here!" His voice is harsh and his words are sharp. He glares at John with his sharp blue eyes and even I can feel a chill in then air.

"I've upset you, haven't I?" John asks, in his defense,

"Oh, your deductions never cease to amaze me, Dr. Watson." Sherlock sighs in annoyance, pulling up the stool and sitting down, "Maybe I should write the blog and you can solve these cases."

"Hey, alright. Sorry, mate." John begins, but Sherlock is already lost in his mind palace, deep in the world of his work.

"Darling, it's fine. John was just teasing." I say, squeezing his shoulder as if to tell him to lighten up and that it's okay, but I know it's no use. This is how he reacts when he's embarrassed. He shuts down and goes straight to work. "Sherlock," I try again

"Do you have that pen I asked you to grab?" he asks, coldly without even looking up from his microscope. I look at John and we both sigh realizing that there's nothing to do but let him work. Reluctantly, I open my satchel and dig out my notebook and pen while John pulls out his phone.

It is oddly quite: uncomfortably quite.

_BING!_

Sherlock's text alert goes off. Without so much as moving his head away from the microscope, he pulls out his phone and peers at the text. I can read it from the corner of my eye.

'_Now who's being juvenile-JW'_

I glance over at John who has a smirk on his face. He just nods at me and I know that this is normally how they communicate when Sherlock's like this. I glance back at Sherlock and catch his reply just before he hits send.

'_Says the man who is sending a text message rather than saying the message aloud-SH'_

_BING!_

John receives the reply and chuckles; "Touché, mate." He says, busying himself with some test tubes at a different bench. Sherlock just nods in reply. Once again, they have forgiven each other without so much as addressing the problem. I will never understand them.

"Elfie, make a note of the blood specks." Sherlock says, switching slides. I grumble and begin to write it down, but suddenly feel a comforting hand on my thigh. I look up at him and our eyes lock. "Would…would you like to take another look?" he asks. I can see the genuine honesty behind his sea foam eyes. Those eyes that never cease to dazzle me.

"Yeah, okay." I manage to say. A smile grows across Sherlock's face as I set my notebook and pen aside. He opens his arms to me and I situate myself on his lap. We situate ourselves as we were before, with our hands intertwined over the knobs and I peer down the lens at the new clot of dirt.

"Now, just like before." Sherlock whispers in my ear, "Look. Really look."


	3. Chapter 3: Trust

_**Wow! I didn't expect to get these many followers so all I can say is thank you thank you thank you. It makes me want to keep writing so it very much appreciated. I'm finally starting to develop a case so it will get a bit more angst-y. Please continue to comment, review and follower and all that wonderful stuff; It helps a lot, trust me.**_

_**I do not own Sherlock or Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's cannon.**_

_Chapter 3: Trust_

"Write this down."

"Okay."

"Sample shows gun powder residue."

"Uh huh."  
"The gun was a British Army Browning L9A1."

"Got it."

"Gun was fired from 2 feet away. Shooter had exactly one minute to hit his target so there was no time to panic. He-no she-She had fired a gun before and showed no sign of nervousness or doubt; this was a planed shooting, premeditated murder. Probably a domestic dispute, why else would she want to kill him? Its obvious."

"…Huh?"

Sherlock glances up from the microscope and gives me his signature 'its-obvious-don't-you-see' look. Too tired to hear one of his monologues at the moment, I just nod and write down the note: "Female. Planed shooting. Got it."

"Thank you, Fee. John, hand me another sample?"

In the 2 hours since entering the lab the three of us have gone through 32 samples. Yes, 32 samples of dirt: plain, boring, dirt. We have a sort of assembly line going; Sherlock examines a sample for about 10 minutes, has me make a few notes on it, and then passes it on to John to sort into an evidence bag. John then hands Sherlock a new slide and the process starts again. It's quite mundane and, frankly, quite boring; the only person who finds any form of joy in this is Sherlock. Then again this is the man who wrote a blog on the different types of tobacco ash. The tiniest things fascinate him and in this case, it's dirt.

Every third sample or so, Sherlock lets me look through the microscope and gives me a chance to deduce what I see. True, he ends up correcting me, but not in a harsh way; it's more like a teacher gladly showing his student how to improve at the task. He's told me before that my mind is "wasted on being a historian" and that I hone a skill for detective work, but I just smile. Sure, I find adventure in helping him and John with cases, but I could never be like Sherlock. I don't think I will ever be as good as he is at…well, whatever it is that he does…but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy giving it a try.

"Here, but it's the last one." John says, handing Sherlock dirt clot number 33, "I've got to go."

"Aww, but we're having so much fun. Aren't we Sherlock?" I tease.

"Mmm." Sherlock grunts in reply, without so much as moving his eyes away from the microscope.

Lost in his work, then.

"I know and I'll be thinking of about it all through dinner." John chuckles, grabbing his jacket, "Walk out with me, Fee?"

"Yeah, I think he can get on with out me for a few minutes." I say, throwing on my coat.

"Thanks," John says, opening the door, "See you back at the flat, Sherlock."

"Mmm." He grunts again, but in almost a half whisper.

Ah, slipping into the infamous mind palace.

He won't be talking for a while then.

Before heading out, I turn back and kiss the top of Sherlock's head, "I'll be right back." I whisper, but he doesn't budge.

Silence.

Yes, definitely in the mind palace.

John and I exchange a glance of 'oh well' and head out down the hall toward the exit.

"So how's Hattie?" John asks, nervously shoving his hands in his pockets, "Is she, uh, excited about getting married and what not?"

"Yeah, but she's been so bi-polar these past few weeks." I reply, "It's really irritating. One minute she's all happy and excited, then the next she's ready to bite someone's head off. I hope Robert knows what he's getting himself into. Don't get me wrong, I love her to death, but she can be well…a handful."

"Well, she's always come off as a nice person to me." He says, "Yes, a very nice person." His voice trails off into a whisper at the last part. Curious, I look over at John and notice that his cheeks have turned a slight shade of pink and his mouth as turned up in the shape of a small grin. Ah, now I see!

"Doctor Watson, I do believe you're blushing." I say, nudging him with my elbow, "Do you…have feelings for Hattie?"

"What? No! No, I don't." He declares, getting a tad bit defensive, "I'm just…my cheeks are cold. That's why I'm-" I give him a raised eyebrow glare and he sighs, admitting defeat: "Alright, you caught me. I think Hattie's…cute. Grant you I've only met her a few times, but she's left an impression." He sighs heavily again and looks up at the ceiling as if to avoid eye contact with me, "I asked her to coffee one time after you had introduced us." He confesses, "She accepted and we had a good time. We even went again for a second time, but I guess we never really hit it off…like I wanted."

I think back on that day I had introduced Hattie to John and Sherlock. She was writing an article on Sherlock's investigation into a murder at a local theatre (something about an aluminum crutch and a jealous actor. I don't remember the details) and had asked me to schedule an interview. Glad to help my friend as well as introduce her to this amazing man, I gladly obliged. Hattie wasn't as blown away by the consulting detective as I was, but found his blogger to be much more interesting. "You follow him on every case?"she had said, "willingly?"

You know,looking back, I do remember John sparking up a separate conversation with Hattie and she doing her signature 'bat-my-eyelashes-and-giggle' trick that she does when she flirts. I guess I had never figured anything of it until now. Maybe there could've been something there.

"John, why didn't you tell me?" I say, "I could've said some-"

"Elfie, forget I mentioned it," John mumbles, slightly embarrassed, "Hattie's engaged to Robert now. She's untouchable…Not that I'd want to touch her, or anything, but you know what I mean by touch. I meant as in…I'm going to shut up now." He stuffs his hands even deeper into his pockets and picks up the pace in his step. Surprised and a bit touched by this new side of John, I chuckle and place a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"John Watson, your sweet guy." I say, placing a friendly kiss on his cheek, "Any girl would be lucky to have you." He blushes and gives me a half hug as we walk down the hall. For a guy who can never seem to hold down a relationship, John sure has one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. He'll find someone someday; someone he truly deserves.

"Hey, Elphie," he says, as we reach the exit, "can I ask you something?"  
"Of course." I reply, "What's up?"

"You and Sherlock-I mean, it's none of my business really," he stammers, "but, uh, have you two ever…well, you know."

I look over at him with a puzzled gaze. It's not like John to be nervous: "Have we ever what?" I pry.

"Look, you guys have been together for almost a year and, well-You two seem like your in this for the long haul and…"  
"John, just spit it out." I sigh, rolling my eyes, "You're making me nervous."

"Okay fine." He takes a deep breath and then practically blurts it out: "Have you and Sherlock ever had sex? There I said it!"

My cheeks become really warm and there's a sudden lump in my throat. "No," I croak, trying to keep my cool, "No we haven't. We...we've never really discussed it."

"Oh" he replies, with a hint of shock, "that's interesting…Really?"

"Yeah, really. Does that surprise you?"

"Well, actually, yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you're the first person he's ever said 'I love you' to."

I ponder that thought for a moment; Sherlock had never said the phrase, let alone thought of the idea of love before he met me. True, he cared for others, like John and his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but never actually said the word love until there was me. "Love has always been a misinterpreted distraction to me," he had said, "but now I see that it's true nature can only be experienced with one other person, you have shown me that."It's a hard thing to fathom and yet it makes me feel honored to be his love. No one else can say that they've stolen the heart of Sherlock Holmes.

"John," I say, trying not to linger on the thought for too long, "what does that have to do with Sherlock and I having sex?"

"Okay, maybe that wasn't the way to go about it," he explains, as we step outside, "but, look the only reason I ask is because, well, he's my best mate and you're good for him. Great for him, actually."

"You think?" I ask, flattered.

"Oh yeah, he's more, well, human when he's with you. To be honest, Fee, I'm surprised he's not more out in the open with your guys' relationship. You're the only person he trusts."

"Okay, now you're just being too nice." I say with a laugh.

"No, seriously." He protests, "Okay, remember that time when Sherlock and I had to go to Dartmoor for a case?"

"How could I forget? _Internet Detective Solves Hell Hound Mystery: _It was everywhere. Hattie even wrote an article on it."

"Yes, well, do you remember that night he called you?"

I bite my lower lip and nod. I definitely couldn't forget that phone call. We had only been dating for a few months and this was the first time we had been apart since. I received the call in the middle of the night and I only answered because I figured it had to be a direr emergency; Sherlock never calls, always texts. When I picked up, I didn't even recognize Sherlock's voice. It was so quite and shaky, like a child's when they've woken up from a nightmare. I had immediately asked what was wrong, but he couldn't explain it. He wasn't making much sense and I had thought he was just in one of his odd moods, so I told him that it was late I needed to get up early. Then he said something I will never forget:

"Please don't leave me."

It had struck me to the core. Here was this man that had protest to never have emotion or be shaken by anything, and yet he was begging me to stay on the line. It was the first time he had ever been truly human with me. It was the moment when he truly had my heart.

"I remember the call," I finally say, hearing Sherlock's echo in my head, "it was after he saw, er, thought he saw that dog thing you guys were chasing. In my gut, I knew that something had truly shaken him to his core. Hell, I almost went to Dartmoor that night I was so worried about him."

"Fee, he was absolutely terrified." John explains, "Scared out of his wits. I couldn't go near him without getting an ice-cold glare or him spitting out a 'leave me the hell alone'. And yet, he called you. Sherlock turned to you when he was at his most vulnerable. He let you see his weaker side; I've never seen it and I live with the man." I blush and adjust the brim of my cap. I had never thought of it like that before. I just assumed that Sherlock needed someone to listen to him that night. "He trusts you, Elfie. He trusts you with his life," John goes on, "don't ever forget that."

I smile and give him another hug; "Thank you, John. I'm…I'm flattered." He hugs me in return then heads out the door. I stand in the doorway watching and making sure he finds a cab safely.

"I'll see you later, Fee," he calls out, finally flagging down a cab. "Hey! Maybe Sherlock's got some sort of romantic evening planed for you two after the lab: maybe a little late night dinner, candlelight, champagne…other nightly activities."

"Goodbye, John." I yell back, rolling my eyes as I reenter the building.

As I walk back down the hall to the lab, my brain is buzzing with all that John had said as well as questions of my own. Despite being together for almost a year, Sherlock and I have never really discussed our relationship with each other. We know we both love each other and we both trust each other, so what's the point in talking about it? Is that why we've never had sex? Is it because we've never felt the need to discuss it? Does he even want it? I don't know, maybe I'm over thinking it all, but I have to admit, the issue is on my mind.

I'll have to bring it up with Sherlock at some point, but not tonight. Not while he's working.

Just as I reach out to open the lab door, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and answer it:

"Hello?"

"Where the hell are you?" the voice on the receiving end hisses.

Ah, bride-zilla is calling.

"Hi, Hattie."

"Elfie, I'm about to flip my lid. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm with Sherlock," I reply, opening the lab door and walking inside, "Did you get my note?"

"Yeah, I got your note. _'Out. Won't be home until later.' _What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"I thought it was pretty clear." I say with a hint of sarcasm. What can I say, I like to push her buttons when she gets like this.

"Fee," Hattie snaps back, "we are suppose to go pick out flower arrangements tomorrow morning and we're meeting Robert for lunch at one. How am I supposed to plan these things out when I don't even know when my maid of honor will be home? Or have you forgotten all about that?"

"Hattie, calm down. You're freaking out over nothing. I'll be home in time for both, don't worry. I haven't forgotten."  
She sighs heavily on the other end and I can hear her voice crack a bit: "I know, I know, I know. I'm just…UGH! I'm so stressed! I have a deadline to meet, dresses to order, table settings to approve, guests to situate-It's too much!"

"And you are handling it all beautifully," I encourage, "Listen, power yourself a glass of wine, curl up on the couch and just relax. You have the flat to yourself tonight, make the most of it."

"So, you won't be home until tomorrow?" she asks, sounding less like the wicked witch of the west and more like her normal self.

"No, I'm going over to Sherlock's." I say, looking over at my boyfriend, who hasn't moved since John and I left.

"Oh God," Hattie groans, "he's not whisking you away on some wild goose chase is he? You know, he's going to get you in trouble one of these days."

"God, you sound like my mother," I chuckle, "and no he's not. He's just finishing up a case so it should be a quiet night in."

"Ooo, a quiet night at his flat? Lucky you."

I roll my eyes. Ugh, the sex thing again.

"Oh shut up." I groan, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You better!"

I hit the button to hang up, stuff the phone into my coat pocket and return to my place beside Sherlock, who is ferociously texting away at his phone. It's to Lestrade, probably: he's most likely filling him in on the dirt samples.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asks, giving me a side-glance.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were in the mind palace." I say, mockingly placing a hand on my chest in shock. He smirks and motions his head toward the phone in my pocket. "Oh, yeah, Hattie's just stressed right now." I say, "She'll be fine."

"Good," he says with a nod, going back to his texting, "wouldn't want you to be pulled away because of some direr wedding emergency." I chuckle and rest my head on his boney, left shoulder.

God, I'm so tired all of a sudden. When will he be done?

I glance over at the wall clock and sigh; it's only 8pm. Too early to be tired. Then again, spending an afternoon with Sherlock Holmes can be down right exhausting, even if you're just looking at clots of dirt.

"Right! That's it then." Sherlock practically sings, happily pressing the send button and rising from the stool.

"Hmm?" I mumble, sitting up slightly.

"Hungry?" he asks, tossing on his coat, "Believe it or not, I'm starved."

"Wait, you're done?" I ask, waking myself up a bit, "But your tests take ages. We've only been here for 2 hours."  
"I told you, it was an obvious domestic dispute." He explains while turning off the microscope, "It was easy, child's play really. I've informed Lestrade of my findings and he is on his way to pick up the samples. I must say that you're small deductions were quite helpful, Elfie, and for that I thank you." Sherlock tosses on his scarf and places a soft kiss my forehead, "Now, I'll ask you again, my dear, are you hungry? I was thinking we could eat in this evening. Italian sound good to you?" Before I can even muster a reply, Sherlock grabs my satchel, takes me by the hand and pulls me toward the door.

"Whoa, wait. Sherlock! Don't you want to wait for Lestrade?" I ask, slightly taken back by his sudden uncharacteristic behavior, "I mean, you always wait for-"

"Not tonight." He says, as we practically gust down the hall, "Tonight, I am devoting all of my time to you. I don't want to think about a case: No murders, no petty thievery, nothing."

"Well," I say, making sure I heard him right, "That's-that's really sweet…and a little unlike you."

"Nonsense," he says, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me in close, "I'd give up any free time I had in the world to be with you, you know that. I love you."

Thinking about all that John had said to me earlier, I can only just smile at Sherlock's statement now. Our eyes meet and my cheeks turn a bright red. However, my smile slowly fades when I notice that his normally stone cold gaze has a different tone to it: A darker tone. He looks…afraid? This is new for me; I have never seen this look before. Is that John was talking about, Sherlock's weaker side?

"Sherlock," I say, slowing down a bit, "Is…everything alright?"

"Of course." He says, looking away rather quickly, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason," I say, holding him close in a comforting way, "You just seem…"

"Worried? I am not." He snaps, getting defensive.

"I didn't say that you were, love."

"Good because I'm not."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Silence.

Well that turned sour rather quickly.

Once outside, I hold out my hand to flag a cab and one stops a few minutes later. Sherlock opens the door and we pile inside. After giving the driver the address and we get underway, Sherlock rests his head against the window and I just gaze out the other side. This must have been what he was like when he called me from Dartmoor: Defensive and not daring to make eye contact. It's a bit…chilling. This isn't the Sherlock I know and I don't like it.

Suddenly I remember what John had said to me; Sherlock has let his guard down only for me. Perhaps he can do so now. Carefully, I set a comforting hand on Sherlock's thigh as if to physically say 'I'm here if you want to tell me anything.'

"Sherlock, I don't want to pry," I say, "but you know that…that you can trust me." He looks over at me with a questioning look. "I mean, if there was anything that you needed to say." I stammer, "I'd-I'd be here for you because I…I love you and…"

Suddenly, Sherlock wraps me up in his arms and places a soft, comforting kiss on my lips. At first I'm surprised by his sudden public display of affection, but then I let my body relax into his hold as I return the gesture. When we part, I open my mouth to speak, but Sherlock places his pale fingers to my lips to stop me.

"I need to speak with you about something." He whispers, cupping my left check with his hand, "Something that I didn't want to involve you in, but now it's become inevitable."

"What do you mean?" I ask, "Tell me what's wrong."

"Shh, please" he whispers, holding me in as close as he can in the back seat of the cab, "this isn't the time or place."

"Sherlock, you're scaring me." I say, genuinely worried, "What is going on?" He sighs heavily and nuzzles his head onto my shoulder, like a child who is in need of comfort.

"Another level of the game." He says, closing his eyes.

Suddenly, it clicks in my brain. There is only one thing that makes Sherlock act like this. One thing that makes him let go of his natural emotionless appearance. One thing that makes him play it's little game.

"That wasn't Lestrade that you were texting was it?" I cautiously ask, stroking his messy mop of dark curls. Sherlock just shakes his head and his hold tightens slightly. I bite my lower lip and nod. I was right.

"Moriarty?"

"Moriarty."


	4. Chapter 4: This is What He Does to You

_**Okay so once again I cannot begin to tell you all how much it means to me that there are more and more people showing interest in this story. This chapter was a bit difficult to write (ugh writers block) but not to worry because Chapter 5 is already well into the works. Please continue to follow and review.**_

_**I do not own BBC's Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's canon.**_

_Chapter 4: This is What He Does To You_

We remain in each other's arms until the cab comes to a stop at 221B, Baker Street. Sherlock slowly lifts his head from my shoulder and looks at me with the coldest eyes I've ever seen. I try to speak, but can't think of the right words to say. There is nothing I can do or say when's he's like this. It's similar to when Sherlock is deep in his mind palace, cocooned in his thoughts and shut out of the world around him. That, surprisingly, is normal behavior for him. This, however, is much more worrisome. This is a whole other of level of isolation he puts himself in.

It's because of him.

It's because of Moriarty.

Finally letting go of me, Sherlock pays the driver and we slowly exit out into the cold, London air. The sky is darker than it was and storm clouds have begun to tumble in. Ironic that it has begun to rain; it underlines the overall mood right now. As we walk up to the door, neither of us dares to speak. What is there to say, really? Slowly, Sherlock opens the front door and steps aside to let me in; his face is stone and emotionless.

"Sherlock," I try, setting a hand on his cheek.

"Don't. Please." He sighs, brushing my hand aside, "Just…go inside."

Admitting my defeat, I enter the building. Sherlock follows, closing the door behind him with a slam. I jump at the sound, but dare not look at him. '_He's not upset with you,'_ I tell myself, _'He's like this because of Moriarty.'_

Moriarty.

I have never had an encounter with the consulting criminal, nor do I ever wish too. I only know about him from what Sherlock has told me and, in truth, it makes me sick. I can't begin to fathom how or why someone would do the things he does, but then again why does any criminal do what they do?

Moriarty is a man who finds joy in making people's lives a living hell. A creep, to say the least: an insect that won't seem to go away, no matter how many times you swat at it. He is Sherlock's nemesis, yet at the same time, he's his equal. I think that's what frightens Sherlock the most about Moriarty. He knows how his mind works and it's exactly like his own. Part of me worries that Sherlock will one-day underestimate Moriarty's intelligence and then…God; I don't even want to think about what would happen.

After what feels like ages, we reach the sitting room of his flat. I toss my satchel down onto the couch and take a seat, hoping my boyfriend would join me. Unfortunately, after hanging up his coat and scarf, Sherlock just passes me by and goes to his desk by the window. Pulling my legs in close and resting my chin on my knees, I watch intently as he flips open his laptop and begins to hurriedly type; his focused eyes dart back and forth across the screen at lightning speed. It won't be long before I loose him completely to his work.

"Sherlock?" I ask, my nerves building up inside me.

He doesn't respond.

I clear my throat and try again to engage him in conversation: "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Working." He says in monotone, not even lifting his head from the screen, "Feel free to make yourself at home, Fee. There's some take away menus in the kitchen if you're hungry, don't bother ordering me anything, I won't be eating tonight."

"I've lost my appetite," I reply

"Then by all means, make yourself comfortable unless you enjoy just sitting there, staring at me like a deer in headlights." He shoots back with an icy sting to his voice.

I sigh heavily and bite my lower lip. He does this when he's in this mood; he begins to mindlessly ramble and insult whoever is in the room as a way to avoid confrontation. It's childish, but then again, Sherlock can be quite the child. I take a deep breath and try again:

"Sherlock, we-"

"Please, Elfie, don't try and make conversation, I do not wish to have mindless chatter this evening. Then again, conversation has never been your strong suit; you're much more skilled at bookwork and note taking. Speaking of which, pass me your notebook. I need to look over what I said about the samples."

"Sherlock-"

"You can use the shower if you'd like. I noticed in the cab that you're hair is a bit oily. Bad thing to hide it under that dusty cap of yours, it will only make it worse. I'm sure John wouldn't mind you using his shampoo; he does use women's shampoo mind you, God only knows why…Well, God and me, but that's not important right now. What is important is the fact that you continue to just sit there, attempting to break the ice, when you can obviously see that I am extremely busy."

"Sher-"

"You've pulled your legs in close to your chest, signifying that you feel insecure and nervous. Why would that be? Ah, perhaps it is because you are at a loss for words. Yes that must be it! You keep biting your lower lip because you're struggling to find the right thing to say at the moment. Allow me to help with that last predicament: Don't talk. I need to work and to complete my work I need silence. I thought you would've learned that about me already, but then again your mind works like everyone else's: slow and so boring. Honestly, I wonder how people like you get along in the world without truly seeing what is going on around you."

"Enough, Sherlock!" I finally snap, shooting up from the couch, "Just stop it! Stop avoiding the issue here and talk to me! Tell me what is going on with Moriarty!" Surprised, he lifts his head from the computer screen and looks over at me. The tension is thick as our eyes lock in a deep gaze; Sherlock has never heard me raise my voice like that and to be honest, I've felt the need to. But this needs to be dealt with; if Moriarty has made a threat or some kind of challenge toward Sherlock, then I want to know about it. I _need_ to know about it.

"Please, Sherlock," I go on, trying to keep calm, "Don't…don't dodge this. Don't shut me out. You _need_ to include me. I've seen what this man does to your mental state and quiet frankly, Sherlock, it worries me."

"Don't worry yourself with such petty things." He states, his voice cold and unfeeling, "My mentality is something few people understand as is my involvement with James Moriarty."

"Then help me understand it." I coax, going to his side, "What did he text you today that's making you act like this?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath and runs his long fingers through his mop of curls; "Leave it alone." He mutters

"You said that you needed to discuss this with me," I remind him, "so why are you avoiding it now?"

"I said leave it alone."

"Moriarty is none of your concern and you have no right to inquire about my affairs with him." He barks, twisting his curls in his hands.

"Like hell I don't." I snap back, "I have every right to know about your so called affairs with him. It's called being concerned for your welfare."

"I don't want to involve you in this." He says between his teeth.

"Well it's a little late for that." I retort, folding my arms across my chest, "You lost that right when you asked me to be your girlfriend."

Suddenly, Sherlock slams his hands on the desk and rises from his chair "Don't, Elfie!" He hisses, glaring at me with those piercing eyes, "Don't use that against me!" I can hear the anger building in his voice and, in truth it scares me. We've never had a full-blown argument before and, trust me; the last person I'd want to get an argument with is Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm not using anything against you, Sherlock." I cautiously say, backing up slightly.

"Yes you are. You are using my feelings toward you as a way to get me to talk." He declares, hovering over me, "Do not mistake my love for you for my breaking point."

"I would never do that," I say, "Why would say such a thing?" Sherlock grits his teeth and quickly turns away from me. "Sherlock Holmes, stop being so stubborn and talk to me." I try and coax him to say more but he is silent. Suddenly, it clicks in my brain: "Is that what Moriarty texted you? That I was your breaking point?"

Sherlock doesn't look at me but motions to his phone on the desk with a jolt of his head. Slowly, I pick it up and unlock the screen. A string of messages from an unidentified number is the first thing that pops up. Realizing that these must be from Moriarty, I read through them carefully:

'_Evening, deary, I miss you. How are things? Busy? Hope your not bored without me-JM'_

'_Shall we continue our little game? I won't take no for an answer-JM'_

'_I've got it all planed out too. Just wait to you see it-JM'_

'_Not replying won't make me go away-JM'_

'_Fine. Be that way. Now it'll be a surprise -JM'_

'_What did you have in mind? Any new tricks-SH'_

'_Too late, honey. Don't want to spoil the surprise-JM'_

'_RE: What did you have in mind? Any new tricks-SH'_

'_You'll be hearing from me soon, don't you worry –JM'_

'_Btw, congrats on your one year anniversary coming up. Elfie right? Hope she likes playing games as much as you do-JM'_

I look up from the phone and stare at Sherlock, unsure of what to feel or say. How did Moriarty know about me? Only just last week, Sherlock had introduced me as his girlfriend to Lestrade and the rest of the Yard. How could Moriarty have known? I read on:

'_Keep her out of this- SH'_

'_So she is real! Good to know. Poor John must be jealous- JM'_

'_She is not part of this-SH'_

'_Too late-JM'_

'_Don't test me-SH'_

'_See! I knew that you had a heart-JM'_

'_Hearts are easy to break, Sherlock, just keep that in mind-JM'_

'_TTYL, Sherly-JM'_

'_I'll be waiting for your move-SH'_

My heart begins to pound as I plop down on the corner of the desk. So many emotions are flying through my head right now, but above all is fear. I am afraid of what Moriarty meant by "surprise" and "game" but even more so that Sherlock replied to him. He knows what Moriarty is capable of, so why does he encourage it? How could he?

"Happy now?" Sherlock says, snatching the phone out of my hands.

My eyes start to water and my hands shake. "Why…why did you reply?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking, "You could have just left it alone."

"He doesn't leave anything alone." Sherlock hisses, gazing out the window, "Why should I?"

"Because you're better than him." I say, going to his side, "You don't have to prove that by engaging in his little mind games."

"If I don't, he'll think he's won." Sherlock snaps, glaring at me, "I can't let him think that he's beaten me."

"He hasn't beaten you at anything."

"You don't see it do you?" Sherlock snaps, tightly griping me by the shoulders, "Moriarty thinks he's finally gotten to me by revealing that he knows about you and I. He thinks I'm weaker now that I have you in my life. He thinks that he can break me. Well, I would like to see him try." Sherlock's voice suddenly becomes dark and sinister, almost unrecognizable. His eyes even seem a shade darker like something supernatural has come over him; I hardly even recognize him.

"Don't you see, now, that this is why I've never been in love?" he sneers, "It is a petty distraction that can turn even the strongest of people into complete imbeciles! Well, I am not going to allow that to happen to me! I am not weak! I can take anything Moriarty throws at me and I have no concern for the consequences, even if that means bringing myself to harm! I will do what I must to stop Moriarty and I'll be damned if you or anyone else is going to get in my way!"

"Your talking nonsense!" I cry out, "Stop this! Please, you're scaring me!"

"Good! Maybe then, you'll begin to understand what I'm trying to do!" he barks back, "Maybe now, you'll see that I'm trying to protect you!"

"This is not protecting me, Sherlock Holmes! This is breaking my heart!" I shout, letting my emotions run rabid, "You're letting Moriarty get the best of you and…God, I can't be with you when you're like this! You are not invincible, Sherlock, and one of these days it is going to be more than just this stupid game. One of these days, I'm going to loose you to that…that monster. I can't do that, Sherlock! I won't!"

I push him away with all my might and storm toward the door. I need to break away from him. This is not the man I love.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock shouts at me.

"Home!" I snap back, tossing my satchel over my shoulder, "or at least somewhere where I don't have to hear the name Jim Moriarty."

"Elfie!"

"Don't, Sherlock!"

"Please don't leave me."

I freeze in the arch of the doorway. My heart skips a beat and the lump in my throat tightens. Those words: It's an exact echo of when he called me that night from Dartmoor: So desperate, so scared and so human.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly turn back around to face him. He looks like a lost child; so hurt and so in need of someone to comfort them. A look of confusion and shame has fallen across his face and his eyes have returned to their normal shade of comforting, bluish-green. "F-Forgive me, Elfie." He says, trying his best to keep his voice strong and clear, "I'm not myself this evening. I wasn't thinking properly just now an-and my mind…Please, Fee, don't-don't leave me. I-I can't be alone right now."

Yes, there he is.

There is my Sherlock.

"God, you bastard." I breathe out, dropping my bag to the ground. I go to him and toss my arms around him in a tight embrace. Allowing my tears to flow freely from my eyes, I burry my face in his chest and uncontrollably sob. Sherlock nuzzles his head atop my own and starts to rock me back and forth gently.

"Shh, it's alright. It's over now," he coos, rubbing his hands up and down my back, "I'm sorry. This is my fault."

"No." I sniffle, rising my head to look at him, "It's his. It's Moriarty." Ashamed, Sherlock closes his eyes and allows one tear to escape.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Carefully, I cup his face in my hands and gently brush away the tears with my thumbs: "I've never seen you cry before." I say, stroking his left cheek.

"I've never had a reason to cry in front of you before." He replies with a shaky sigh. Slowly, Sherlock opens his eyes and cups my face in his hands; his gaze loving and determined: "I won't let him get to you." He goes on, trying his best to keep his voice strong, "He's gotten John once before because I had misjudged him and I almost lost…this time, Moriarty won't come near you. But I need you to trust my judgment. This may go down a road that you may not wish to travel, but… I'm going to need you by my side. Will you…will you give me that? Will you give me your trust?"

"I trust you with my life." I reply, cautiously, "But you have to promise me something."

"Anything." He says, looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Don't leave me." I beg, nuzzling my forehead against his, "Whatever Moriarty has planed, no matter what happens, Sherlock, please, don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere." He whispers, "I promise."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

"I don't doubt that you will."

We lock eyes and suddenly, there is a new tension between us: something inevitable and strong, incredibly strong. Gently, Sherlock wraps an arm around my waist and holds the back of neck firmly with his free hand. My hands gently rub up and down against the purple silk of his too tight button up as I close my eyes and loose myself in this moment.

My heart is nearly pounding out of my chest.

My nervous are completely shot.

"Sherlock." I sigh, "I…"

"Shh, don't speak." He whispers, his lips inches away from my own, "Oh, my darling, darling, girl."

Before I can even blink, Sherlock and I are locked in the most passionate kiss we have ever exchanged. Everything is a blur, but I feel so safe and in love in his arms.

Right now, the world has stopped moving.

Right now, there is nothing else: no case, no Moriarty, no game.

Just as we are about to escalate our romance, Sherlock takes hold of my hands and parts away for a moment; "You need to wash your hair." He says running is long, pale fingers through my greasy, black, locks.

I let out a sigh of disappointment but smile: "You really need to get better at your timing when you say things like that."

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion but then realizes his mistake. For the smartest man in the world, he can be so naïve at times. "Oh, bit not good?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever." I tease, placing a peck on his blushing cheek, "Does your offer still stand? Can I use the shower?"  
"Of course."

We quickly kiss again and then I head toward the bathroom. Suddenly, Sherlock comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. "Sherlock," I chuckle, as he kisses my neck, "make up your mind."

"You didn't answer my request." He says matter of factly.

Confused, I turn around to face him properly; "What request?"

"Do you forgive me?" he whispers. I smile and kiss him passionately on the lips, rubbing my hands up and down his boney hips.

"Does that answer your question, detective?" I whisper before playfully pecking at his earlobe.

"I...uh…I…" he stammers like a schoolboy. Good Lord, is he actually speechless?

With a chuckle, I kiss his cheek again and turn back down the hall toward the bathroom. I can start to feel the day's trails and tribulations weighing down on me so a warm shower will feel fantastic. Just as I open the bathroom door, Sherlock calls out to me:

"I take it that that was a yes?"

"Yes, Sherlock." I reply

"Oh, good."

"Okay."

I step into the bathroom and reach over for the light switch.

"Fee?" Sherlock calls out from the living room.

"Yes?" I shout back, turning on the water.

"Thank you for staying."

A smile grows across my face as I remove my clothes and step into the shower

"I love you too, Sherlock." I call back


	5. Chapter 5: Can You Explain It?

_Chapter 5: Can You Explain It?_

The hot, comforting streams of water run down my face while Sherlock's voice echoes through my head like a song stuck on repeat.

"_He thinks I'm weaker now that I have you in my life...Don't you see, now, that this is why I've never been in love?"_

I tangle my fingers through my dark, shampooed hair and try to wash off the argument we had just had. It's left a sort of sickening feeling in my gut as well as made me think about what John had said to me at the lab.

"_He's more, well, human with you…you're the only person he trusts."_

Sherlock is not the same man as when he and I first met, that is for certain. He doesn't shut himself out from the world as much. He's more aware of how his actions affect those around him. He's even started to really express (dare I say) his feelings to John and I. He's less like a machine, now, and much more like…well, like a human. So the question is: have I given this so-called emotionless man a heart and is that necessarily a good thing?

'_Hearts are easy to break, Sherlock, just keep that in mind.'_

What if Moriarty was right in assuming that Sherlock's not as strong as before? Now that Sherlock has me, will he be as eager to risk everything? Before we started dating-hell, even before John moved in-Sherlock didn't have a care in the world for those around him let alone what affect his work may have on them. Now, I'm not so sure. Now, I think there may be a chink in his armor and I think that might be me.

Finally deciding that I should step out of my watery safe heaven of thoughts, I turn the shower off and step out. The bathroom has steamed up considerably and I've lost track of time since stepping in. My mind is too full of other things at the moment: too many thoughts to deal with.

As I dry myself off, I notice something out of the corner of my eye: A blue, silk bathrobe is folded up beside the door with a note attached to it. Curious, I pick up the paper and read it:

'Meet me in the bedroom. Wear this. It's cold.'

My cheeks turn a slight shade of pink and I start to smile. _'So this is how Sherlock Holmes does sweetness,'_ I say to myself, _'Interesting.'_

Giggling, I dry off my hair, slip on the robe and head to Sherlock's bedroom. The flat is extremely quite. The patter of the rain outside echoes off the walls and there is a soft rumble of thunder. I wrap the robe even tighter around my bare frame and pick up my pace; hopefully, it will be a bit warmer in Sherlock's room.

When I reach the door, I gently knock. "It's open," that lovely baritone voice mumbles from inside. I turn the knob and open the door just enough to pop my head in. Sherlock is lying on his back, eyes closed, with one arm hanging loosely off the edge and the other resting on his stomach. He is dressed in a grey t-shirt and pajama pants: a very rare outfit for the consulting detective, and yet, a very adorable one.

John calls it 'the calm before the storm' when Sherlock is relaxed like this. Mainly, because the first time he saw his flat mate dressed in his pajamas, lounging about, Sherlock had shot multiple holes into their wall. "It's like walking on ice, when he's relaxed." John has told me, "Take advantage of the calm phase, because you'll never know when he's going to go off." Right now, my only hope is that he won't go off. I can't take another shouting match with him: not tonight, not ever.

"Hey," I whisper, tip-toeing inside the room, "you still awake?"

"Obviously," he grunts in reply, tapping a light beat on his stomach, "why else would I invite you in?"

"Sorry," I say with a hint annoyance in my voice. I really don't want to hear his sass right now.

Sherlock, detecting this, looks at me with a furrowed brow; "Was that rude?" he asks

"No, no, that was just…you being you." I reply, taking a seat on the corner of the bed, "Thanks for the robe, by the way."

Sherlock, slowly, sits up and crosses his legs underneath him. He leans in close to my face, squinting his eyes in that deducing gaze. "Why do you stay with me?" he asks rather bluntly.

"Beg pardon?" I say, taken back slightly.

"Why. Do. You. Stay. With. Me." He asks again, "Because after the earlier events of this evening, I have come to realize that I have to ability to cause you some form of internal pain."

"Huh?"

"I've hurt your feelings. My work and my affairs with James Moriarty make you uneasy and unable to be around me, or so you put it. You said it yourself, I was breaking your heart, so I'm asking you now; why do you stay with me?"

"Well, because I love you." I say rather matter of factly.

"Is that all?"

"Yes!" I reply, getting a bit upset, "Does there need to be more?"

"There must be more logic to it then that. Why do you love me?" I stare back at him for a moment and try to wrap my head around what's happening: Are we really having this conversation? Does he really understand?

True this is Sherlock first real relationship. There was that soiree he had with that dominatrix but I like to block that whole incident out of my mind: She was-Ugh, never mind, not important. Anyway, Sherlock has never experienced love before and the idea of it is completely new to him. He looks at it like an equation that must be solved at all costs. Sometimes its sort of sweet to watch him fondle over the idea, but other times, it comes off as…well, annoying. Sherlock can't just accept things for no reason. He always needs an answer.

"Sherlock," I sigh, situating myself to face him properly, "when you truly love someone, you don't need to explain the reasons why. It's just…right."

"Everything can be explained." He counterpoints, "even the most obscure of things in this world has a proper explanation."

"Okay then," I mockingly challenge, "why do you love me?"

Sherlock's gaze breaks for a moment; his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Well it's because…because…" he pauses to steeple his hands under his chin and then goes on, "I love you because…because-I asked you first."

"Ah, ha! You see," I say, leaning in so that our faces are only inches apart, "even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, can't explain it." Slowly, I wrap my hands around his and lower them down to his lap, "Is this you're way of trying to find out why we argued?"

He sighs heavily and looks down at our intertwined hands, "I don't know how to take in what just happened between us." He admits, massaging my knuckles, "We've-we've never argued before and, well, I hope we never have to again. I…I thought I was going to loose you tonight and all because I was being stupid an-" He stops and squeezes my hands slightly. "I apologize." He whispers, "I'm not quite good at this; our relationship. I never meant to upset you."

I can see that it's hard for him to talk about this; it always is when he has to bring up his feelings.

Emotion: Sherlock Holmes' greatest adversary.

In an attempt to comfort Sherlock, I lean in and kiss his cheek. Suddenly, he wraps his arms around me, like a child holding something they hold dear to their chest, and pulls me in close.

"I am sorry." He whispers in my ear, "for everything this evening. Please don't be angry with me."

"Sherlock, honey, I'm not angry." I assure him, wrapping my arms around his neck, "I'm just worried about you. I hate what Moriarty does to you. You completely shut down and it practically drives you mad."

"I know." Sherlock sighs, nuzzling his head into my neck, "but I can't ignore him…as much as I deeply want too. Moriarty isn't just some thief or murderer, Fee; he's a class-A criminal, boarder lining on terrorist, you could say. He does this for pleasure not because of a motive."

I cringe at the thought of someone doing what Moriarty does just because they want to; how can a person's mind work like that? It's sickening.

I must have made some subconscious motion of distress because Sherlock pulls back slightly so we can face each other: "I should stop talking about this," he states, an underlining tone of worry in his voice, "it's upsetting you again."

"No, no you need to get this off your chest," I reply, "Go on."

Slowly, Sherlock situates his hold on me so that I am being cradled in his lap. His eyes gaze down at me and his soft, long fingers gently intertwine with my own. I can see his brilliant mind working behind those stormy green eyes; so mesmerizing. Feeling amazingly relaxed, I rest my head against his chest and listen to his steady breathing.

"I wish this would all just go away," he says in a soft, comforting voice

"So do I." I sigh heavily, "but can you do anything about it? Can you find Moriarty?"

"Moriarty wants me to be surprised," Sherlock explains, "His attack could come from anywhere at anytime. By introducing the element of surprise, there is nothing we can do about that except wait."

"Oh, come on, you're Sherlock Holmes, there must be something." I say, "You must've thought of something."

I feel his chest rumble with his low chuckle; "I appreciate the amount of faith you have in me, darling, but I'm afraid I don't have anything up my sleeve."

"Well, what about those texts?" I suggest, "Can't you trace the number?"

"Afraid not. I've tried."

"Can…Mycroft?" I cautiously suggest. I know that Sherlock refuses any sort of help that his brother can provide, but maybe in this situation he can set aside his pride and…

"Absolutely not." He snaps, suddenly getting defensive, "Any suggestion of my brother's involvement in this is out of the question."

Okay, never mind.

"Okay, okay, sorry." I say, resting a hand on his heart "Didn't mean to pry."

"No. No, you didn't" Sherlock sighs, kissing the top of my head, "I shouldn't have snapped. Its only…Moriarty is my concern, not Mycroft's or the British governments for that matter."

"Really? I would think someone like him would be top priority."  
"They don't understand his full mentality."  
"And you do?"  
"I understand enough of it to realize that he is an insect that must be squashed quickly."

"That's a bit dramatic, Sherlock."

"Well, I am 'a bit dramatic'."

I look up him and we both smile; it's rare when he makes fun of himself, but when he does, it's quite adorable.

Our eyes lock in a soft gaze and the mood suddenly changes to something unfamiliar to us.

The air is tight.

My heart is racing.

His eyes have a determined haze to them.

My nerves are completely shot.

"Elfie," Sherlock whispers, "I promise you…"

"Shh," I coo, setting a finger to his lips, "Don't speak." Without loosing my gaze on him, I sit up completely and swing my legs over his torso. I can feel his body tense up and he lets out a small gasp. Chuckling, I cup his face in my hands; "Do you want me to move?" I ask, placing a soft peck on his blushing cheek.

"No," he breathes out, closing his eyes, "Just…just…" Slowly, Sherlock moves his hands onto my waist and starts to rub the silk fabric of the robe against my bare skin. He pulls me in as close as he can-our lips inches away from each other-and nuzzles his forehead against my own. "Elfie, I love you."

Overcome by the moment, we passionately kiss. First, it's on the lips. Then, I trace along his jaw line while he moves to my neck. We're both breathing rather heavily. My fingers lock themselves into his dark curls as each kiss grows with intensity. Sherlock's hands quickly move up from my waist and latch onto the sash keeping the robe closed. Suddenly, the next thing I know, I'm on my back with London's only consulting detective hovering over me: Our eyes locked in a deep gaze.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck. Sherlock smiles and we kiss again. Very slowly, I feel Sherlock's hands being to tangle with the sash.

My heart nearly pounds out of my chest: Can this really be happening?

The world starts to spin.

Our breathing is heavy.

_BAM!_

Suddenly, we freeze. We hear the front door shut and a pair of shoes trudging up the stairs: "Sherlock? You in mate?"

Ah, John Watson: always the master of perfect timing.

"Damn it, John" Sherlock groans. He places a soft kiss on my neck then slowly sits up. He tosses his legs over the side of the bed and stands. Just as he heads for the door, I reach out and grab his hand. He looks back at me and smiles; "I'll be right back," he says, giving my hand a quick squeeze.

Slightly disappointed, I let him go and curl up under the covers. I'm suddenly reminded of how chilly the flat is and the rainstorm blustering outside. Goosebumps cover my whole body and I curl up in a ball to protect my body heat. Pulling the duvet up to my cheeks, I close my eyes and think about the events of the day; how in hell did my dull afternoon alone go from studying dirt to shouting about the most dangerous man in London then ending with nearly going all the way with Sherlock Holmes?

I guess I'm being to dramatic when I say my life is dull.

Just as I am about to let sleep over take me, a comforting hand brazes my arm and a pair of lips press against my forehead. I smile and reach out to take Sherlock's hand.

"I thought you'd dozed off." He whispers, crawling in beside me. I shake my head no and slowly open my eyes about halfway. He is staring right back at me; his face inches away from my own. "Come here," he coaxes, pulling me in so that I rest my head on his chest.

"My hair's still damp." I mumble, cuddling in as close as I can.

"I don't care." He chuckles, "my darling, darling, girl." I close my eyes again as he starts to rub my back gently. "Apparently John's date didn't go so well." He says.

"Do they ever?" I sleepily tease. Sherlock chuckles and gently kisses the top of my head. I begin to feel the strokes on my back getting slower and slower as Sherlock's breathing becomes more relaxed. I slowly open my eyes and look up at him; his eyes are closed and he looks so peaceful. "Sherlock?" I whisper, stroking his cheek.

"Mmm?" he mumbles

"I'm glad you invited me over tonight."

A smile grows across his face; "I'm glad you accepted."

Satisfied, I kiss his cheek and rest my head back onto his chest. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep just as the storm outside begins to grow.

_**Oi vey! First of all thank you to those who continue to comment and follow and favorite. It really keeps me going. This chapter is actually shorter than I anticipated but I wanted to update ASAP and this was a pain for me write (once again, ugh writers block). I will get more in depth with a case in the following chapter as well as bring Hattie and her fiancé more into the picture. I've got a plan and it' going to be…interesting. ;)  
**_

_**I don't own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Many thanks and love**_


	6. Chapter 6: An Unexpected Lunch Date

_Chapter 6: An Unexpected Lunch Date_

"So, wait, let me get this straight." Hattie says the next morning as we meander through flower shop, "Sherlock has this 'archenemy', Moriarty, who sent him a text last night saying that he knows about the you two being a couple and that he'll be seeing Sherlock soon, which really means that some big crime is going to happen, but instead of going to his brother for help or warning him of a possible oncoming attack, Sherlock's going to deal with this all by himself?"

"Well, not all by himself," I add, picking up a bouquet of yellow roses, "He'll probably drag John along. Do you like these?"

"Eh, not really." She says, "but, seriously, did I get it right? Is that really what happened last night?"

"Yeah that's the gist of it." I reply, setting the roses back into a vase.

When we met up this morning as planed, I immediately filled Hattie in on the events at Baker Street last night. She's always so willing to listen to this interesting relationship Sherlock and I have and, like a true best friend, does her best to understand it. I feel bad telling her about this whole Moriarty thing while we're shopping for her wedding, but I just had to get it off my chest. Thankfully, Hattie gets that. It's why were friends.

"So, you two shouted at each other about this?" she asks, examining some pink tulips, "This must be a big deal, then; you guys never shout. Ooo! I like these!"

"Hattie, you can't have everything pink," I say, putting a hand on my hip, "Pink bridesmaids dresses, pink shoes, touches of pink in your veil; it's going to look like a Barbie Dream Wedding."

"Psh, it's my wedding." She joking declares, "If I want to look like Barbie, I'm going to do so. Thus, I say yes to pink tulips." I roll my eyes and we both laugh.

Despite her ever-changing moods, planning this wedding has made us even closer friends. Sometimes, Hattie teases me by saying "I can't wait to help you plan you and Sherlock's wedding" but I only just giggle and quickly change the subject. Yes, I love Sherlock more than anything and I do want to spend the rest of my life with him, but marriage? That doesn't really seem like something he would be up for. He would ask what the point of it would be and, quite frankly, he'd be right; We are happy the way we are, why not stay that way…right?

"Seriously though," Hattie goes on, when we've paid for a ridiculous amount of those tulips and exit the shop, "are you alright? You never raise your voice to Sherlock. It must have taken a lot to get you to legitimately shout at him."

"Yeah, but its was mostly out of concern." I say, opening my umbrella, "Moriarty is a crack but Sherlock keeps engaging him. This morning, when he got up, he went straight to his laptop and started working; He just sat there, glued to the screen and typing a hundred miles a minute. John and I could barely get a peep out of him; hell, I'm surprised he gave me kiss goodbye when I was leaving. He's going to get himself hurt, Hattie, or maybe even worse. I'm concerned like any other girlfriend would be."

"Fee, not any other girlfriend's are concerned about consulting criminals."

"Point taken."

"Well, look," Hattie says, placing a comforting arm around my shoulders, "Arguments, no matter the context, happen to everyone; you shouldn't linger on it. To me, it seems like Sherlock has his own personal issues with this Moriarty character and there is nothing you can do or say to get him out of it. He needs to figure it out for himself."

"But…Moriarty is dangerous."

"And your boyfriend craves danger, you know that. I mean this is the guy who chases murders for a living: Did you really expect to have a plain ol' relationship with him?"

"No, but…I just don't want him to get hurt."

Hattie laughs and gives me a quick side hug, "Elfie Stegerson, in all the years I've known you, I never would've guessed that you'd fall head over heels with a guy like Sherlock Holmes."

I blush and sheepishly look at my feet; "How do you mean?"

"Oh come on, girl," she teases, hooking her arm in mine, "you're track record of boyfriends range from that librarian Tim to that science TA from sophomore year. They weren't exactly as adventurous as you are, honey."

"Hey, hey, the TA was adventurous." I joke, "he took me to that laser show. That was pretty…out of the box."

We look at each other and laugh. Yeah, she's got a point; Sherlock doesn't quite fit what some would call 'my type'. Then again, Sherlock isn't really anyone's type; He's just…Sherlock.

"To be fair," I say, "I never thought you'd end up with a guy like Robert."

"What, an heir to an immense family fortune or a Scottish business mogul?" she asks with a smirk.

"Both." I reply. We laugh again and continue to chat about her wedding as we make our way to the restaurant where we are meeting Robert for lunch.

Hattie's fiancé is waiting for us at an inside table, dressed as if he's just come from an important business meeting: grey suit, blue tie, brown hair slicked back, goatee cleanly trimmed and a blue tooth is hooked up in his ear. To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen Robert outside of work-mode. Talk about someone who can't separate himself from his work.

Eh, I can't judge; I mean, look at my guy.

"No, no, no, I don't-Does this seem like a petty issue to you?" we hear him wildly spit out into the speaker as we approach the table, "Look, I'm meeting with them today and I was guaranteed that they will take care of it all in no time flat. We can continue the plans as scheduled."

"Should we wait until he's done?" I whisper to Hattie.

"Oh, no, he does this." She assures me, taking a seat beside him, "Just sit down, he'll notice us eventually. You can call this his 'mind palace'." She gives me a joking smirk and I playfully roll my eyes. Sometimes, she likes to compare Sherlock and Robert, but I don't know why. They are nothing alike: nothing at all.

I take a seat across from the couple and hook my damp umbrella on the back of the chair. To be honest, I feel out of place like Hattie and I intruding on some private conversation of his. After a few minutes, Robert's eyes glance up at us and his mood suddenly changes from stressed to relax:

"Dan, I'll call you back. My fiancé is here." He says, taking Hattie's hand into his, "Yes, yes, I'll call you after the meeting. I'll let you know how it goes. All right…. Yes…Bye." He whips the earpiece off and brings Hattie's hand to his lips. "Ah, my jewel." He dotes, kissing her hand over and over again.

"Bobby," Hattie giggles, her cheeks going all red, "stop being ridiculous." The couple leans in and kisses on the lips again and again. I just sit there and watch.

Yeah, now I definitely feel out of place.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy for the two of them, but sometimes they act like they are in high school; always clinging to each other and making out in the most awkward of places. Honestly, they're grown adults! I'm always the extra person when the three of us meet up: the designated driver, the chaperone, and the odd one out.

It makes me think; does John ever feel like this when he's with Sherlock and I? We aren't as mushy as Hattie and Robert that's for sure-honest, the most PDA we've ever done is holding hands at a crime scene-but does that make John feel uncomfortable? I'll have to ask him.

When the ecstatic couple finally separates, Robert acknowledges my presence: "Ah, Elfie!" he says in that thick Scottish accent, "How are you?"

"Hello, Robert," I say, with an awkward wave, "I'm good thanks. Is everything all right? I mean you sounded like you were in the middle of something when we walked in."

"Oh yes, yes, everything's fine." He replies with a bright smile, "Just a tiny mishap at the office. Nothing too drastic."

"What happened?" Hattie asks, hooking her arm in his.

"Come now, let us not talk shop." He says with an awkward laugh, "I want to hear about the floral arrangements you picked out, dearie. Shall we get a waitress over and order?"

I could just be paranoid, but I sometimes get the feeling that Robert's hiding something. He never talks about work with Hattie and, from what she tells me, he rarely ever goes into detail about what exactly he does. All I know is that his work has something to do with insider trading…whatever that means. I wonder if there's more to it? Maybe he doesn't want Hattie to know about work because it's not entirely legal?

Good God, I am Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend.

After ordering our food and chatting way too much about flowers, Robert's phone suddenly dings. He looks at it and an embarrassed smile grows across his face: "Ladies," he says, "I must apologize, but it seems our little lunch outing won't be as private as we had hoped."

"What do you mean?" Hattie asks, taking a delicate bite into her risotto, "Who was that that texted you?"

"Work?" I ask, knowing that I was right.

"Sadly, yes. That mishap I mentioned, well, it seems that it needs to be looked into more intently. Unfortunately, we have to get the police involved." I can hear a tinge of annoyance and bitterness in his voice: Interesting.

"So it's not just some mishap then." I say, leaning forward a bit, "Why else would the police get involved? This must be pretty important."

Robert just gives me a Cheshire cat smile that makes me feel a tad uneasy. Quickly, I loose eye contact with him and fiddle with my soup.

"What's happened exactly?" Hattie inquires even further, using her reporter voice.

"Am I off the record, miss?" he teases. Returning to her regular, non-journalist self, Hattie blushes and twists her curly blonde hair. They kiss yet again.

Okay, seriously, how many times can they kiss in one sitting?

The text alert goes off again and, finally, they part. Robert looks at the phone and rises up from his seat. "I'll explain everything shortly, ladies." He says adjusting his suit jacket in a very business like manner, "Now, it seems our guest has arrived. Back in a bit."

Once he has left to receive our unexpected guest, I lean in and whisper to Hattie: "Okay, seriously. This is awkward."

"What do you mean?" she asks

"He's dodging something." I say, "That phone call we walked in on, a mishap involving the police, unexpected guest: doesn't it all seem a bit off to you?"

"Oh, honestly, Fee," she replies, with a smile, "relax. This is what he does; Bobby constantly works. We have to get use to his work style."  
"No, _you_ have to get use to it, not me. I'm just the best friend. I don't need to be involved in these meetings. Aren't you at all curious about what he's talking about?"

"Fee, you're acting like a someone's died or something." Hattie giggles, "It's just a silly business meeting; somebody at the office probably miscalculated an estimate. I think you've been to one too many crime scenes."

I sigh heavily and slowly stir my spoon around in my tomato bisque. "You're right, sorry." I say, genuinely concerned, "It's just…I don't know Hattie, something just doesn't seem right."

"Maybe you should call Sherlock, then." she teases, "He'll sort it out."

"Real cute." I reply, giving her a playful glare, "Anyway, his brain is in 'Moriarty mode'. He wouldn't be interested…or he'd send John to deal with it."

"Poor John." She says with a content sigh, "He's…he's a good guy isn't he?"

"Who, John? Yeah, he's a real good guy." I notice that Hattie's cheeks have turned a slight shade of pink. "Why do you ask?" I add in with a bit more curiosity.

"Oh, oh, I'm just…wondering." She says rather quickly, "He seems like a nice guy and-Well, I'm not implying anything but…Sherlock's a lucky guy."

"Meaning?" I inquire, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, it's just, they are really close and…Well, have you ever met two guys that are that close that aren't…I mean I know Sherlock isn't because he's with you and he loves you, but-"

Realizing where this conversation is going, I cross my arms across my chest and give her a glare. "Hattie, are you implying that there is something romantic between Sherlock and John?"

"Hey, I'm just saying what the papers are thinking." She says in her defense. We look at each other and quickly burst out laughing. What a ridiculous accusation. Sherlock and John? Together? Please, they would kill each other!

Our laughing fit soon ends, however, when, Hattie kicks me from under the table. "What the hell was that for?" I ask, catching my breath. I then notice that she's staring wide-eyed at something behind me. Confused, I turn around to look. I nearly jump out of my chair in surprise as Robert escorts our guest to the table.

"Here we are then, sir," Robert says opening his arms toward the table, "allow me to introduce my fiancé, Hattie Weston and…Pardon me, but I think you've already met her best friend, Elfie Stegerson."

"I do believe I've already made your fiancé's acquaintance." Replies that baritone voice I know all to well.

That's Sherlock's voice. My Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" Hattie says, trying to wrap her head around it, "You're company is getting help from Sherlock Holmes?" Ah, bride-zilla is coming out. Robert better start spilling the beans.

"We only hire the best to deal with these sort of things," Robert replies, "And Mr. Holmes is in fact the best! I mean, have you read the blog, dearie?"

"Yeah, yeah, we both have." Hattie replies, kicking me again. I don't react; I'm too busy trying to figure out why boyfriend is here. What is going on?

"Yes, hello, Ms. Stegerson." Sherlock says, cordially taking my hand, "always a pleasure to see you." Gently, Sherlock places a soft kiss over my knuckles. His eyes lock with mine and he gives me a quick wink and a clever smirk. My cheeks turn bright red and I'm suddenly quite warm.

"And-and to you, Mr. Holmes." I reply finally finding my voice. Sherlock takes the seat on my left and continues to hold my hand under the table as he addresses Robert directly:

"I'm sure you are well aware, Mr. St. Simon, that even thought Inspector Lestrade referred your case to me, I have not accepted it. I have agreed to this meeting only so that I can obtain the full details."

"Understood, Mr. Holmes," Robert replies, returning to his seat and placing an arm around Hattie's shoulders, "however do forgive me if I leave out the more confusing details in the presence of the ladies here."

"Then perhaps we should cancel the contract now." Sherlock adds in with an annoyed sting to his voice, "I need the full details if I am to work on this case, however unnerving they may seem to be. Besides, Ms. Weston must be able to deal with these so-called confusing details since she is a reporter; She does maintain a basic level of competence. As for Ms. Stegerson, well, I can assure you, from my previous work experience with her that she can handle anything that is thrown her direction. She has a brilliant mind, that is for certain."

Sherlock gently squeezes my hand and I blush; "Thank you." I say.

He just nods at me and goes on: "Now, Mr. St. Simon, it's to my understanding that this matter must be solved quickly so I can only urge you to please tell me exactly what happened…in full detail."

"Yes, please do." Hattie says, facing Robert, "My head is spinning in confusion. What is going on?"

Robert takes in a deep breath and suddenly becomes very worried and stressed. Slowly, he tells us what is going on:

"About a week ago, I had noticed some major holes in quite a few of our accounts. Thousands of pounds were missing and there was no sign of where they have been placed. They had disappeared into thin air. I knew immediately that the company had been robbed from the inside; one of my workers was stealing from me. Naturally, I called the police to come investigate. It turned out that one of our top accountants, Jonathan Monroe, was taking money out of the accounts for his own personal uses; Drugs, apparently. I fired him on the spot and hadn't heard anything from him sense…that is until this morning."

Robert pauses and looks over at Hattie with pleading eyes: "Honey, this isn't to get out into the papers, alright?" he says, holding her hand in both of his, "Promise me?"

"Of course," she says with a nod. He nods and then returns his gaze toward Sherlock.

"And will Dr. Watson be posting this on the blog?" he asks, "I don't want a huge press following of this."

"So far, Mr. St. Simon, you have told me nothing that would interest the press let alone John's blog readers." Sherlock replies, "But it does seem that you have more to say, so by all means continue." I gently squeeze Sherlock's hand as if to tell him to be a bit nicer, but what good would that do?

Slightly annoyed, Robert goes on: "This morning, while I was on my way to work, I received a call from Inspector Lestrade. I was told that Monroe was found dead in his apartment that morning and that there had been an envelope placed beside the body with my name on it. I quickly went down to Scotland Yard to pick up the envelope and was prepared to answer anything that the police may ask. Mr. Holmes, the envelope contained a check for all the money Monroe had stolen from me. It was nearly half a million pounds. Monroe didn't have that kind of money tucked away somewhere, especially if he had a drug problem."

"So you think that he stole the money from someplace else to pay you back?" Sherlock inquires, steepening his hands under his chin.

"No, Mr. Holmes, I think someone has made it appear that way. I think Jonathan Monroe was set up and murdered."

Hattie lets out a small gasp then covers her mouth: "Bobby, how can you be sure?" she asks, "What makes you say that?"

"Something just doesn't seem right about all this." He explains, "Monroe was a good man, I had known him for years. He wouldn't have just developed a drug problem out of the blue and start stealing. That wasn't like him. Mr. Holmes, I know that this isn't that much of a challenge for you-not based on the cases you usually solve-but I know that there is more to this than meets the eye."

Sherlock narrows his eyes for a moment then rubs his hands together. What's he thinking about? Surely, he must have figured out the answer to this predicament before Robert even finished talking. What more is there to think about? Besides, he has Moriarty to deal with at the moment. Sherlock won't take on another case. Then, I notice, a small smile grows across Sherlock's face; one I have never seen before. It's a bit…mischievous?

"More than meets the eye is my specialty, Mr. St. Simon," he states, slowly standing up, "I will take the case."

"You will?" Robert and I both reply (I with a bit more disbelief than he).

"Yes, of course." Sherlock says with a nod, "As you say, Mr. St. Simon, there is something not entirely right with these course of events. Now, you say Monroe was found dead this morning?"

"Yes, sir, in his apartment." Robert replies

"Excellent, the body will still be at the morgue then." Sherlock extends his hand out to Robert and the two shake. "I will have the matter settled as soon as possible," Sherlock says, "Pleasure meeting you and always nice to see you, Ms. Weston." He takes Hattie's hand and shakes it quickly and awkwardly.

"Same to you, Sherlock." she replies, slipping her hand away.

Suddenly, Sherlock turns; "Shall we, Elfie?" he asks.

"Beg pardon." I say, looking at Hattie and Robert's confused faces.

"Well, you will be accompanying me, won't you?"

"Are you asking?"

"In a way." Sherlock gives me that half mouth smile and extends his hand to me, "I think we should leave the two of them be, don't you?"

"Go on, then." Hattie coaxes, "I'll meet you back at the apartment."

"Um…okay." I reply, taking Sherlock's hand, "I'll text you."

"You better." Hattie replies and with that Sherlock whisks me out of the restaurant and out into the rainy, London streets.

"Come along then," he says, over the sound of pounding rain, "we have to pick up John and then we're off to the morgue. Molly will let us in, no problem, and she'll let us take a look at the body. I need to determine the cause of death."

"And you're taking me because…" I ask.

"To keep you with me," Sherlock replies, pulling me in under his black coat and wrapping an arm around me, "This case-oh ho, my daring girl, this case! Isn't is exciting?"

"Is what exciting?"

"This! Oh he is clever, I will give him that. But that is beside the point at the moment. Right now, all I can do is keep you safe."

"Safe from what? I fail to see how this Monroe guy's death is of any harm to me." Suddenly, I catch a small glint in Sherlock's eye and it all clicks together, "Oh! You don't think-how can it-you think Moriarty is behind this?"

"Of course it is." He replies, hailing a cab with his free hand, "This case fits his plan perfectly."

"How? I thought he was planning a surprise."

"I'll explain once we pick up John and are at the lab." Sherlock says, placing a kiss on the top my head, "Just know, my dear, that this game is very well a foot and I intend to keep you, John, Hattie and even her fiancé out of harms way. Trust me on that."

_**And done! ***__**Wipes brow dramatically**__*** Well, there we go! The game is on! (Cheesy, yes I know). I had intended on posting this earlier but work and school and so on and so forth got in the way. **_

_**Once again thank you to all who have added this to their favorites and followed and commented (The Dark Lady55, your comment made my day! 3). I didn't expect to get this many notices so truly thanks. This is awesome. More to come soon.**_

_**Much love**_


	7. Chapter 7: Out of the Ordinary

_Chapter 7: Out of the Ordinary_

"I'm sorry, but he's with a patient."

"Oh come on, we both know that he's not with a patient; He's just taking his time. Now let me in, I need to speak with him."

"This is his last appointment of the day so he'll-"

"Did you not hear me? I need to speak with him _**now**_."

After a short and awkwardly quite cab ride from the restaurant, Sherlock and I have arrived at John's work. It's a small clinic, not one where you'd expect to find an ex-army doctor working, but John enjoys it. He says it keeps him from getting rusty at being a medical man. I think it's because of the woman who runs it, Sarah. They use to date I think. I don't know I only met her once.

Anyway, we are here now to get John and then head over to the morgue to view Jonathan Monroe's body. I sit on the most uncomfortable couch imaginable, flipping through an out-dated entertainment magazine, while Sherlock is talking with-well, actually, shouting at-the receptionist. Poor girl, she has no idea what she's getting into. Sherlock isn't just some pushy visitor who wants to see the doctor; He's quite possibly the most stubborn person on Earth. He'll rip her apart if he doesn't get his way.

"Sir," the receptionist says with a big, fake smile, "I'm sure whatever you need to speak with Doctor Watson about can wait until he's done for the day. Would you like me to take down a message?"

"Oh for God's sake, no I would not!" Sherlock snaps back, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, "You are wasting my time!"

"Sir," she says, taking in a deep breath, "I understand that you're in a rush but-"

"Does your husband know?" Sherlock interrupts suddenly.

"Sorry?" the woman asks, a bit befuddled.

"About your pregnancy…or should I say unexpected pregnancy." He replies, "You are in the beginnings of your second trimester."

Oh God, here we go.

Slowly, I peek up over the top of my magazine to observe the monologue Sherlock is about to perform; this poor woman has no idea what she's done.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." The receptionist says, trying to keep calm, "I'm not…"

"Oh, yes, forgive me. How inept of me to assume such a thing," Sherlock says, glaring her down with his piercing, deduction gaze, "you're not married, well, not to a man at least. You and your significant other have been together for about seven years going by the state of that ring on your middle left finger. It's a successful relationship, but you both work unpredictable hours-you working at a health clinic and she being a criminal justice lawyer- it adds a bit of a strain on the romantic side of things."

"How did you-?"

"Business cards with the information for The Law Offices ofJoanne Montgomery are sitting beside that picture of you and a ginger haired woman. Clearly not a relative, since you are dark haired and dark skinned. Not a best friend, too hands on in the picture. Okay, girlfriend." He goes on, speaking a hundred words a minute, "This clinic has its own legal team so why else would you have a stack of personalized business cards at your desk if not to show off your pride in your lover.

But I'm getting off track here: You're pregnancy, now there's an interesting thing. You want a family, but your partner doesn't; too time consuming and it only means more bills for the two of you to pay. Money, money, money, that's how lawyers think. So, you went behind her back and made an appointment at the sperm bank in hopes that she may change her mind. Planned on surprising her with the news this Saturday in fact when you pick her up at Heathrow Airport. Must learn to keep your personal day planner out of people's eyesight when you're working the front desk, people might read it.

How do you think she'll take it, hmm? Shocked? Worried? Overjoyed? Or perhaps she'll be furious with you that you decided to make a huge, life-changing decision without consulting her first?"

The receptionist stares at Sherlock, wide mouthed and pale. Goodness, I think she may start to cry. Sherlock has been known to have that effect on people. It's why we no longer go out on dinner dates.

"You…you horrible man!" She finally breathes out, "You have no…no right to speak about…"

"Dr. Watson is just in here isn't he? Thank you!" Sherlock says, with a smart smirk.

"Wait! You can't go in-HEY!" the receptionist tries to stop him, but it's no use. Sherlock nonchalantly walks past her and enters the exam room behind her desk. As this scene comes to a close, I chuckle to myself and return to my magazine.

Oh, my dearest Sherlock, what am I going to with you?

"Your husband is a horribly rude man!" the steaming receptionist snaps at me. Shocked and a bit taken back, I look up at her.

"No, no, he's not my husband." I say, feeling very warm all of sudden, "but I am sorry about his behavior. He doesn't mean to insult people."

"Who ever he is, he needs to leave!" she lashes out, "Please take him out of here or else I will call the police and have him escorted out!"

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," I reply.

"Oh! And why not?"

"He works for the police…kind of."

She opens and closes her mouth like a fish as she tries to find the right thing to say; "You…he's…who in God's name is he?"

Just in time to break this awkward conversation, Sherlock reenters the room with John, hurriedly putting on his coat, behind him; "Anna, it's alright. This is my flat mate." John says, placing a comforting hand on the receptionist shoulder, "Just ignore him. He's-well, he's him. Tell Sarah…"

"Come along, John!" Sherlock says, taking me by the hand and whisking toward the door, "Were on a schedule." Rolling his eyes, John follows us. I look back at Anna, wanting to say something kind, but nothing seems to fit.

"Congrats on the baby." I call back just as we round the corner toward the exit. Sherlock chuckles and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in under his coat. Odd, he's never been this cuddly before.

"She's pregnant?" John asks, flabbergasted, "How did…" He then notices the smug grin on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"I did nothing, John." He replies, as we step outside, "nothing at all."

After a 30-minute cab ride of Sherlock filling John in on the details of the case, the three of us arrive at the morgue. Hattie has texted me multiple times, asking how things are going and what Sherlock was doing, but I don't know how to reply. To be honest, I'm completely lost. I understand that we are here to look into the cause of Monroe's death, but what throws me off is that Sherlock is convinced Moriarty is behind it: Where did he pick up on that? Is Sherlock just so consumed in thoughts about Moriarty that he thinks he's behind everything? Ugh, I don't even know.

"So what exactly is going on?" I ask as the three of us head down the hall to the morgue.

"We are here to look at a body." Sherlock replies, holding on to my hand.

"And whose body exactly?" John inquires, "All I got from what you said is that one of Robert St. Simon's employee's was fired for stealing half a million pounds, then found dead this morning with a check that pays off the amount he stole. Seems like a pretty simple case if you ask me."

"It always seems like a simple case to you." Sherlock says with an icy sting.

"Alright then, whatever," John goes on with a roll of his eyes, "but I don't understand the urgency. If the money's returned, why does Robert care about Monroe's death?"

"He said that something didn't feel right about it all." I pipe in, "He's convinced Monroe was set up then murdered."

"Is that why you think Moriarty is involved?" John asks, addressing Sherlock, "You think he set Monroe up?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's face grows cold and his grip on my hand tightens a bit. I can see the change in his mood in his eyes and it worries me; He looks like he did last night when we fought. It's all because of the mere mention of that man's name.

"I don't _think_ he's involved John, I know." Sherlock finally hisses in reply, "Now, come on."

Before John or I can even deluge into the idea even further, we reach the entrance to the morgue. Sherlock bursts open the doors with his free hand and the three of us enter, much to the surprise of one befuddled Molly Hooper.

"Oh, um, Sherlock! Hi!" she says with a jump, nearly dropping her clipboard, "I wasn't expecting to see you today." She notices John and I but give us a less enthusiastic greeting. "Oh, um, Hello." Is all we get.

"Ah, Molly!" Sherlock says in his normal voice, "I have a favor to ask?"

"Anything! What can I do for you?"

"Jonathan Monroe, his body was brought in today. Mind if John and I take a look at it?"

"Oh, yes of course! Lestrade's team brought him in. I was just about to start the embalming process," she says with a smile, "He's over here."

The three of us follow Molly as she scurries over toward one of the slabs. A rather large body is lying on top of it with a white sheet covering it's lower half. The eyes are sunken in and the skin looks blotchy and revolting under the Florissant light. Feeling a bit uneasy for a moment, I grip onto Sherlock's arm as a small shiver runs up my spine. _'Calm down, Elfie, you have a strong stomach,'_ I tell myself, '_you can do this!'_

"You alright?" Sherlock asks in a concerned whisper.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine." I assure him, "Just…A bit cold in here isn't it?"

Obviously seeing through my lie, Sherlock smiles and removes his signature coat. "Here." He says, wrapping it around my shoulders, "Take it. If you like, you can wait in the hall while John and I inspect the body."

"Flattered as I am by the gesture, I'll be fine, love," I say, sliding my arms into the oversized sleeves, "I can handle it."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and places a soft kiss on the top of my head. "I love you," he whispers, taking my hand again.

I smile and give his hand a quick squeeze. "I love you too." I reply.

It's odd; he never holds my hand this much, especially if he's working.

"This is him," Molly quickly pipes in, motioning toward the body, "brought in this morning. His family identified him just a few hours ago."

"Estimated cause of death?" Sherlock asks, circling the slab and still holding my hand causing me to follow him.

"Complications due to pneumonia," Molly explains, "Apparently he was extremely ill the days leading up to his death."

"Really?" John pipes in, crossing his arms across his chest, "Pneumonia?"

"Yes, his wife said it came on rather suddenly." She says, "High fever, cough, the absolute worse."

"Can someone actually die from Pneumonia?" I ask, "That can't be very common."

"It isn't." John explains, taking off his jacket and tossing it aside, "But if the fever is high enough and the person's immune system is weak enough, death is a possibility. Robert did mention a potential drug problem right?"

"He said that was reason behind the robbery," Sherlock says, halting at the foot of the slab, "You think his immune system was compromised due to a drug habit."

"It definitely fits," John replies, "Molly, do you have any gloves?" Molly points to a cabinet near the foot of the slab and John quickly goes and pulls out two pairs.

"We're going to need to look a toxin report." Sherlock concludes, taking a pair of gloves from John. "Molly could you get on that?"

"Yeah, of course." She says with a smile.

"Excellent." Sherlock then turns to smile at me: those eyes lovingly gazing into my own. "Want to take a look?" he asks, nudging his head toward the body.

"What?" I say with a chuckle. Sherlock's never let me look at a body before. In fact, even in the times I've gone to a crime scene with him and John, I've never seen a corpse up close. And now he wants me to examine one? He has got to be joking.

"No, no, no." I say, putting up my hands in defense, "I'm not going to touch a dead body."

"Aw, come on! You're Sherlock's girlfriend." John teases, "You have to examine a dead body at least once."

"Very funny." I say, "But no thank you."

"You've proven that you can pick up on small details, darling," Sherlock tries again, snapping on the latex gloves, "I could use your skill set." He then addresses Molly; "Could you get Monroe's personal affects for me?" he asks, "Elfie will need to take a look at them."

"Will I?" I ask, giving him a raised eyebrow look and crossing my arms across my chest.

"Yes," he says, looking to me again, "Fee, you've proven time and time again that you posses the talent of deduction and I would like to put those skills to the test."

"Here you go." Molly mumbles, handing Sherlock a large evidence bag of clothes.

Sherlock nods to her and turns back to me with a proud smirk on his face. "Here," he says, holding the bag out to me, "Impress me."

A bit baffled, I take the bag and stare it. "What exactly am I looking for?" I ask, turning it over in my hands.

"Anything out of the ordinary." He replies, "Think of it as a historical artifact you need to examine for work. Molly will help you. Won't you, Molly?"

"Um, uh, sure." Molly replies, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. I can see that she doesn't want to help me, but she won't argue with him for the same reason I won't.

She loves him.

Since meeting her, I've known that Molly has feelings for him; really, whoever's met Molly knows that she has feelings for Sherlock. I don't really care, but I do feel bad because Sherlock has no idea. One would think that the smartest man in London would pick up on someone flirting with them, but apparently not.

However awkward or gawky as she may appear, I really do enjoy Molly's company. She's the only other person-besides John and I obviously-who gets Sherlock and that's saying something. I don't want there to be tension between us. I want to be friends, not make her feel uncomfortable every time she sees me.

"Now shall we begin, John?" Sherlock says, looking back at Monroe. John nods and the two of them get to work while Molly and I empty the bag of clothes out onto a clear slab next to them.

Look for what is out of the ordinary. All right, I can do this.

The bag contains what appear to be Monroe's pajamas; He must have died in his sleep. The armpits of the white wife-beater are yellow from sweat and the front of it is stained with remnants of what appears to be a mixture of blood and vomit. Quickly, I swallow down my own sick.

Keep it together, Fee. You can do this.

To calm my nerves, I look up from the clothes to watch the boys intently examine every crack, crevice, and detail of Monroe's body. Sherlock looks so intent and concentrated. It's fascinating and mesmerizing, to watch him work. It's truly an art form. Kneeling beside John and squinting his eyes, Sherlock tilts that dark head of curls back and forth to examine every single angle of the body, taking in the smallest of details. To others, Monroe's body is just a corpse. To Sherlock, it's an uncharted mystery waiting to be solved. I find that an extremely attractive quality.

I smile as my heart fills up with love for Sherlock Holmes. It's a strange feeling to have in a morgue, but I could care less. I love him I can't help it.

"So, first time seeing a dead body?" Molly asks, standing parallel from me, blocking my view of my boyfriend at work.

"Um, yeah, it is." I reply, looking back down at the clothes and coming back to reality, "I don't know how you can stand it. It kind of gives me the chills."  
"You get use to it after awhile." She says, "It's actually kind of relaxing, you don't have to listen to anyone talk." I look at her, confused, causing her smile to quickly fade, "Sorry, bad joke." She apologizes.

"No, no, it's fine." I say, "I…I got it."

"Oh, well, still." She says, biting her lip, "Anyway, you and Sherlock seem to be doing well? How long has it been now, a year?"

"Yes, a year next month." I say picking up Monroe's flannel pants.

"He really cares for you," she adds, looking down at her shoes, "He seems…really happy with you. You're-You're a lucky girl to have him."

"Thanks." I awkwardly reply, tucking a stray dark hair back behind my ear. There is a silence between us and we both get back to work.

Well, this just got extremely uncomfortable.

"Molly, that toxin report." Sherlock calls out, "I need it."

"Right, of course. One moment." Molly says as she scurries off to another room to print out the report. Relieved of the awkward tension, I return to the project in front of me.

As I run my fingers across the seams of Monroe's pants, I am surprised to find something tucked into one of the pockets. Curious (and a bit excited about the potential evidence I may have found), I dig into the pocket and pull out a small folded up piece of yellow notebook paper. On it is a scribbled message written in blue, fountain pen ink:

_To whoever finds this help! He got me. He still has the money._

"Sherlock." I call out, "Take a look at this." Picking up on the urgency in my voice, Sherlock walks over to me with a furrowed brow. As I unfold the paper a small plastic bag falls out onto the table. It contains a white powder: Drugs, no doubt. I hand him the paper and bag, unsure of what to make of it all. Sherlock holds the bag up to the light, then reads the note over at lightning speed. I can see the cogs turning in that never stopping brain of his as his eyes dart back and forth across the page.

"John." He says, taking the note back over to the body. John perks his head up from studying Monroe's sternum and looks over the note Sherlock has handed him.

"So Monroe knew he was going to die." He says, looking at his best friend for a reassuring affirmation.

"Apparently," Sherlock replies, tossing the small plastic bag up and down in his hands, "but how did he know?"

"Maybe he knew that he was getting sick," I pipe in, walking over to join them, "maybe he wrote this note when he started feeling the symptoms and panicked."

Sherlock nods in approval as he continues to stare intently at the baggie of white powder. "This powder. This must have been what killed him. But the real question is, who is this mysterious he Monroe was referring to?" he mumbles, addressing no one in particular, "He…Who is he…He."

"Moriarty?" I cautionary guess, praying to God that I was wrong. John gives me a worried glance; He's hoping the same thing.

To our surprise, a smile grows across Sherlock's face: It makes me feel a bit uneasy. I don't like when his moods swing so drastically.

"John, tell Molly to email me that report then meet me back at Baker Street." Sherlock says, stuffing the note and baggie into his jacket pocket, "I have reasons to believe that this case goes beyond the death of Jonathan Monroe."

"How do you mean?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

"You said it yourself, darling," Sherlock replies, cupping my face in his hands, "Moriarty! It has to be and now I'm sure of it."

"I still don't see how." I say,

"You will," he assures me, kissing the top of my head.

"So where are you going?" John asks, "

"To make preparations." Sherlock replies, "We are going to have to have a plan this time, John. It's the only way I can protect you and Elfie. I'll see you back at the flat. Fee, come with me."

Before I can even ask what he meant, Sherlock takes me by the hand and whisks me out the door.

_**Hey so…sorry for the late update. Finals and work have been SUPER crazy but luckily I was able to punch out this chapter and get my mind off of all that jazz. Hopefully you are enjoying the case and it will get more twisted, trust me ;) I've got plans swirling around in my head.**_

_**Also I wanted to know if you guys would be interested in a sort of prequel story; a 'how they met' kind of thing. I have the general outline so please let me know **___

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	8. Chapter 8: Change

_Chapter 8: Change_

Thunder echoes through the hall as Sherlock and I head toward the exit of the morgue and fat raindrops streak down the windows. I didn't know morgues could be any creepier, but this weather sure does add to it.

"Sherlock," I say, hooking my arm into his and moving as close to him as I can, "where exactly are we going?"

"To your flat." He states rather matter of factly; his voice is monotone and cold and he looking straight ahead.

"My flat?" I ask making sure I heard him right, "Why?"

"You need to pack."

"Am I going somewhere?"

"In a sense, yes."

"Where?"

"Just trust me."

"But…"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then just do as I ask...please."

Not in the mood to deal with his mysterious 'I-have-a-plan-that-I'm-not-telling-you-about' attitude, I halt mid-step, grab Sherlock's wrists and turn him to face me. I look him directly in the eye and try my best to make my voice as firm, yet caring, as possible: "Sherlock, you know that I trust you with my life and that I would never doubt your plans. But in this situation, you need to tell me what's going on. I'm at a complete loss here."

"It's all fine," Sherlock quickly spits out, "I'm fine."

"No you're not." I counter point, "Please don't lie to me."

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes in a sharp breath, acting as if my last statement was an arrow to the chest, "You know that I never would do that." He whispers, lowering his head in shame, "I…I just don't want to loose you."

"Loose me?" I ask, taken back slightly, "What would give you that idea?" Sherlock just lets out a shaky sigh and rubs his hands over his face. What is going on in that brain of his?

"I've…I've made a terrible mistake, Fee." He says, running his hands through his hair, "I've let you become apart of this Moriarty madness and now... I couldn't tell you about it. Not after our argument last night."

"Couldn't tell me what?" I ask, "What do you mean by mistake?" Sherlock looks at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen and shakes his head. Tears are starting to well up in his eyes; that never happens. This must be serious. I reach out to touch his cheek but he quickly turns away and starts to head toward the exit.

"Sherlock." I call out, but he doesn't turn around. Worried and a tad bit agitated that he's shutting me out, I go after him. "Hey," I say, when I finally catch up with him, "I don't get it. One minute you're all excited and on the case, then the next you're cold and shut me out. Talk to me!" Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a distressed sigh. Very slowly, I take his hands into mine and turn him to face me again. "Please," I gently whisper, "Don't shut me out."

Sherlock stares into my eyes for a moment then suddenly wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. I can only just hold him in return, tangling my fingers in his jet-black curls, and gently kiss his cheek; now I know that something is truly wrong and it's not just the mystery of Jonathan Monroe.

Cases, no matter how morbid or obscure, don't affect Sherlock emotionally. That's part of why he's so good at what he does: No attachments. A couple of the officers at the Yard call him a freak because of it-among other reasons-but I don't see it that way. Like any other person who is keen on getting their job done quickly and efficiently, Sherlock focuses on nothing but the case and it comes off a bit standoffish.

That being said, it is unnerving that Sherlock is acting this way. There is more to this case then he's telling John and I. Maybe it's not even the case that's bothering him. Maybe there's more. I only wish he would just tell me.

When we finally part, Sherlock takes me by the hand and pulls me over to a corner near the doorway. "You must understand," he whispers, looking around to see if anyone could see us, "that the only reason I didn't want to tell you this is because, I didn't want to upset you."

"You won't." I say, slightly confused by his sudden behavior change, "I can handle it. Whatever it is."

Reluctantly, Sherlock pulls out his phone from his trouser pocket and unlocks the screen. "Last night," He says, opening his messages, "I told you that I wouldn't let Moriarty get to you. I promised you that." He takes a long pause and looks up at me with eyes full of sadness. "I never wanted you to be brought into this," he says, "Please, understand that."

"Of course, Sherlock, but what is going on?" I ask, genuinely feeling more and more worried by the second.

With a deep and heavy sigh, Sherlock holds the phone up to me to reveal a message from an unidentified number. It's that number. His number. Moriarty. I take a deep breath and read over the message:

'_Roses are red. Violets are blue. Mr. Monroe is dead; will your girlfriend be too? Hope not, she's a pretty little thing. The history museum would miss her too, I think. Aw, well. Connect the dots to her and Monroe. Let the game begin -JM'_

My heart drops down to my stomach as my eyes dart across the words again and again. A shiver of fear runs through my body cause my hands to start to shake. My head is spinning with paranoid thoughts: How does Moriarty know that I work at the museum? Has he seen me? Has he been watching me?

"He-He knew about Monroe," I croak, trying my best to formulate a full sentence without letting my fear show.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, stuffing his phone back into his pocket, "When Lestrade referred this case to me, I immediately recognized the name. This text had come early this morning, just before you left. You don't know how badly I wanted to run down the stairs and beg you to stay at Baker Street for your own safety, but I knew that I couldn't do that. I had to discover a connection between this Monroe person and you first, then develop a plan for protecting you."

"Does-Did you tell John?" I stammer.

"Yes, and I made him promise not to tell you." Sherlock replies, shaking his head in dismay, "I realize now that that was a mistake. I should have told you immediately. That's what John had advised. He said it was the correct 'boyfriend' thing to do, but I don't like taking relationship advice from him for obvious reasons." I can tell that he means to lighten the situation, but it isn't helping. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock continues, "I thought I could protect you by not telling you but I was wrong. Had I known that Monroe was an employee of Robert St. Simon's, the man whose wedding you are taking part in, I would have told you about the text."

"Is that the connection between us?" I ask, "Robert?"

"So far, yes. The acquaintance of Mr. St. Simon is the only thing that you and Monroe have in common." He says, slipping back into case mode, "I do believe that Monroe's death was put together by Moriarty as a way to show me what he's capable of doing; He can kill someone without even being present. He may even be planning to do the same thing to you, but I promise you now that I will never let that happen. Not so long as I can keep an eye on you."

"But-but he knows where I work!" I cry out, finally letting my fear finally seep through my voice, "You're not there so he could get me then! Am-am I in danger? Sherlock, what does this all mean? I'm…Sherlock, I'm scared."

I quickly burry my face into his black button up and wrap my arms around his waist. Hot tears roll down my cheeks as the thought of being abducted by Moriarty haunts my mind. Slowly, I begin to feel Sherlock's long, comforting arms wrap around me and his gentle lips place a soft kiss on the top of my head.

"Shh, don't cry," he coos, stroking my long dark hair, "I'm here. I've got you."

My hold on him tightens as if to make sure that he truly wasn't going anywhere. God, I feel like a child right now, but in all honesty, I've never felt so afraid in my life. Here was this man, this master criminal, whom I have never met and I am completely terrified of what he might do to me. All I want to do right now is be lost in my boyfriend's arms. I feel safe here. I feel secure. Nothing can harm me when I'm in Sherlock's embrace, not even Moriarty.

After a few long minutes of holding one another, Sherlock cups my face in his hands and brings my eyes to lock with his. "I'm going to solve this, no matter the danger," He says, gently brushing away my tears with his thumbs, "and I promise you, right here and now, that I will do all that I can to protect you. I love you, Elfie Stegerson."

"I know you do," I sniffle, holding his hands in my own, "just…just don't do anything stupid." Sherlock chuckles slightly and smiles warmly at me. I smile back, realizing that those probably weren't the best choice of words for the moment. "Sorry, sorry," I say, feeling my cheeks turn an embarrassed pink, "that was dumb. I meant to say...Thank you and, um, yeah."

"Come on," Sherlock chuckles, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and heading toward the door, "you need to get home and get your things."

When we step out into the stormy London streets, I immediately regret forgetting my umbrella at the restaurant. The rain is coming down in large drops now and the sky is a dark grey. Sherlock instructs me to wait in the door way as he faces the rain and wind to catch a cab.

"Don't you want your coat back?" I call out over the downpour, "You'll catch a cold."  
"No I won't," he calls back, waving down a cab, "that's an-what do you American's call it; An 'old wives tale'? Ah! Here we are!" The cab pulls up the curb and Sherlock opens the door for me.

"I don't think that's a strictly American phrase," I tease, climbing inside the car. Sherlock just chuckles and climbs in after me, closing the door with an affirmative slam.

We soon arrive at Hattie and mine's apartment. Just as soon as I unlock and open the door, my best friend jumps up from watching her Saturday night television on the couch and nearly knocks me over with a powerful hug.  
"Fee, oh my God, are you okay?" she cries, gripping me extremely tight.

"Hey, Hattie." I say, giving her a polite pat on the back, "I'm fine. Can you…can you let me breathe?"

"You haven't been answering your texts," she declares, pulling away and glaring me in the eyes, "why?"

"Well, I didn't know what I was going to say." I reply, "Can Sherlock and I get in the apartment now?"

"What do mean you didn't know what to say? Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, it's all…it's a bit complicated. Ask Sherlock about it."

Hattie looks over my shoulder to see the drenched consulting detective standing behind me. "Why are you wet?" she asks him with a raised eyebrow, "Did you guys swim over here or something?"

"That is highly illogical, Ms. Weston," Sherlock replies, genuinely confused by her statement, "Why on Earth would…"

"Alright, Spock, it was a joke." She teases, "Come on in and dry off."

"Oh." Sherlock replies, "well, then, thank you." I chuckle as we both step inside the apartment: He really needs to get better at identifying jokes.

"So fill me in," Hattie says, taking a seat on the couch, "Did you get to see Monroe's body? How did he die? Was he murdered?"

"I have reason to believe so, yes." Sherlock says, putting his hands behind his back, "and I would be more than happy to discuss further details with you when your fiancé is present. After all, he is the one who has employed me on this matter, not you."

"Sherlock," I scold, tossing him a towel from the hallway cabinet, "you don't have to be so rude."

"How was that rude? I was being honest." He says, wrapping the towel around his shoulders, "But it's of no matter. Darling, why don't you go and start packing, I'll be waiting right here. Ms. Weston, I must inform you that your flat mate won't be staying her this evening or for many evenings for that matter."

"Won't she?" Hattie asks, looking at me with a confused expression. I shrug my shoulders to signify that I don't know what he means either.

"Yes, I need to keep her under a sort of surveillance." He explains, "She knows why. To do so, I need to keep a constant eye on her, or at least as often as I can."

"Gee, Elfie, I didn't know he was so clingy," Hattie teases, giving me a wink. I want to tell her that he means to protect me from Moriarty, but since Sherlock didn't mention it, neither will I.

"Call it what you'd like," Sherlock goes on, "but it is for her own good." Our eyes meet and he gives me an affirming nod. This is all part of his plan, and I'm just going to trust him on this.

"So where are you going?" Hattie asks, turning to address me, "Hopefully not far. I still need my maid of honor to help out with the wedding, ya know."

"You know, I'll be here for you." I reply, "I won't be far." Suddenly realizing that I have no idea where I'm going, I look over to my boyfriend and give him a questioning look, "Right, Sherlock?"

"Oh, not far at all." Sherlock says, walking over to me and placing an arm around my waist, "You'll be staying with me and John at Baker Street. I guess you could say, we're moving in together. That's what couples do after they've been together for a year, isn't it? Move in together?"

I stare back at him in slight disbelief. I guess when he said that he would do everything he can to protect me; I didn't think he meant moving me into his flat. Don't get me wrong, of course it's been a dream of mine to live with Sherlock, but I know how much he loves his personal space. Yes, of course John is always at the flat but Sherlock considers John to be apart of his world now. Am I part of it now too?

"Now, go on and pack." Sherlock says, kissing the corner of my mouth, "I have to make a call. I'll be in the hall when you're ready. Say 15 minutes?" Before I can get in a word in on the subject, Sherlock hands me his towel and heads out to the hall.

"Well," Hattie says, seeming just as surprised as I am, "I'm guess you two never discussed moving in together until now?"

"No, not at all." I reply, staring at the door, dumfounded, "But I mean, it's not anything new right? I mean I've stayed at his flat before. What's the difference?"

Hattie shrugs and rises from the couch, "I have no idea what is going on," she says, "but he seemed pretty persistent on you packing."

"Ugh, he's probably got some schedule going on in his brain," I tease, rolling my eyes, "You can't interrupt the mental timer of Sherlock Holmes." Hattie laughs and follows me to my bedroom. I pull out my old brown suitcase from college and start to fill it with clothes for at least a month. "That's enough right?" I ask, packing my underwear and bras, "He didn't really say how long I'll be at Baker Street."

"I believe he said that you were moving in with him." Hattie corrects me, folding a pair of jeans, "That normally means you'll be there permanently, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, but this is Sherlock were talking about here." I say, "As much as I love him, I know he's not normal."

"Good point." She concurs, placing the jeans in my case.  
"Do you mind grabbing my toiletries for me?" I ask, pulling out a bunch of shirts from my drawers. Hattie nods then quickly dashes to the bathroom, returning moments latter with the requested items.

"Hey, Fee?" she asks, nervously twiddling her fingers in the doorway.

"Yeah?" I reply, stuffing the bottles into the appropriate pouch.

"There's something I have to tell you," she says, sounding a bit ashamed.

"What's up?" I ask, a bit worried for my best friend

"Well, after you and Sherlock left lunch today." She goes on, "Bobby and I got to talking and…Well, seeing that the wedding is next month and we'll be living together anyway…and now that you'll be moving in with Sherlock."

"Honestly, Hattie just spit it out." I tease, "Your worse than John is when you have to say something you don't want to. You both get all nervous and ramble."

"I asked Robert if he wanted to move in here." She spits out rather quickly, "Ya know, just until we get a place of our own and this whole Monroe thing is settled."

I look at her a little shocked and unsure of how to respond "Oh, uh, really?" I muster to say, "That was…nice of you. And a bit unexpected."

"I know I should have talked to you about it first," she says, placing a friendly hand on my shoulder, "seeing that this is your flat as well as mine. After all, we bought it together. I have no right to just invite people in to live with us without consulting you first. But, Robert's my fiancé, Elfie and I just felt like it was the right thing to do right now, what with all this Monroe incident and all."

I sigh heavily and smile: "I know you did it because you love him." I tell her, "I completely understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah, totally. You're my best friend, Hattie. If having Robert stay here with you makes you happy then so be it."

"Your not mad?"  
"Why would I be mad?" I ask, going back to my packing, "It's like you said, you two are going to be living together sooner rather than later so why not start now. It was bound to happen. Hey, look at the bright side! If I am permanently moving in with Sherlock, then you guys will have the whole flat to yourselves. It'll get you prepared for married life."

"God, look at us, Fee," Hattie says with a chuckle, "We move to London a year and a half ago for an adventure and now, we are each going our separate ways with the men we love."

"Geez, girl," I joke, "you make it sound like we're never going to see each other again."

We look at one another and have a friendly embrace. I guess I never really gave too much thought toward the fact that our inseparability could possibly be nearing its breaking point with this wedding. True, our friendship will never die, but things change; She'll be a dotting wife and I'll be…well, I'll be Sherlock's girl. Not that that's a problem, I love being his girl. Maybe one day, I'll be more. Maybe.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

"You're 15 minuets are up." Hattie says, as we part, "You got all that you need?"

"Yeah, I hope so." I say, zipping up my suitcase and picking it up, "I'll call you if I forgot anything dire."

"Sounds good." She says, stepping aside to let me pass, "So I guess, I'll be seeing you."

"Ugh, stop making this seem so depressing." I tease, stuffing my pillow under my arm; "It's not a good-bye forever."

"I know, just let me have my moment." We give each other a quick squeeze then I head toward the front door. Pausing in the living room, I do a quick look around and take in every inch of the cream colored flat. You know, I might actually miss this place. It was my first place I ever lived in after moving out and this place holds a lot of memories. Content, I sigh heavily and open the door.

"Remember the bride's maid dress appointment on Sunday!" Hattie calls out, just as I take my first step out the door.

"Yes, thank you mother!" I call back, "I'll see you then." I step out into the hall where Sherlock is (surprisingly) patiently waiting. The rainwater has made his normally springy curls dense and flat, causing his hair to drape down into his eyes. It makes him look so much younger; it's kind of adorable.

"You ready?" he asks.

For no particular reason, I drop my things and jump into Sherlock's arms, placing a kiss on his surprised lips. It takes him a moment to adjust to my sudden action of love, but Sherlock kisses me back. He even goes so far as to dip me like one of those old romantic 50s couples in those black and white photos.

"Dare I ask, what I've done to deserve just a sweet embrace?" he whispers, as our lips part.

"Because I love you." I reply, wrapping my arms around his neck, "and well, I just-Thank you."

"For what?"

"For looking out for me. Not just in this Moriarty situation, but in general. I don't know what I would do with out you."

"I feel the same way." Sherlock says, bringing me upright, "You are my world, Elfie Stegerson; my world that I never knew I needed until almost a year ago. Which is why, it's so unfortunate that I have to give you this under the present circumstances."

I furrow my brow in confusion, but relax when Sherlock places a small bronze, angel keychain with a silver key attached into my right palm. Etched onto the back of the keychain is an inscription:

_For my Elfie_

_221b Baker Street_

"I had planed to give this to you on our anniversary," Sherlock admits, folding my fingers over the key, "but with Moriarty placing a threat, I didn't want to waste anytime."

"Sherlock, you were planning on asking me to move in with you?" I ask, a bit taken back.

"Is that so surprising?"

"Well, yes! I mean, I know like your space and…"

Gently, Sherlock places a pale finger to my lips and kisses the side of my neck: "You are the most important thing in my life and there is nothing I won't do for you." He whispers in my ear, "I use to consider myself wholly committed to my work and now…now you are a part of my work. I love you."

I turn my head ever so slightly so that his lips are pressed against my own. Passionately we kiss; I lock my arms around his neck and he rubs his hands up and down my waist. Normally, I would be slightly embarrassed by this public display of affection, but right now I don't care.

Right now, there is only Sherlock.

After a few more moments of kissing, Sherlock gently pulls away and picks up my suitcase. "Shall we head home?" he says, intertwining his hand with mine. I blush, pick up my pillow and we head toward the lift.

"_'Shall we head home'_," I repeat, resting my head on his shoulder, "Can't believe that just came out of your mouth."

Sherlock just chuckles and presses the down button for the lift. Once the silver doors open, we step inside and take the slow travel down to the lobby level; Weird to think that this may be the last time in awhile, I'll have to take this trip.

"Um, Fee?" Sherlock asks in an almost whisper.

"Hmm?" I mumble in reply, nuzzling my head between his neck and shoulder.

"Seeing that, well, I have put you through quite the fairground ride of emotions today," he goes on, nervously tapping his fingers against my knuckles, "and I understand that I really have no right in doing so, but there is-I have one last thing to ask of you."

"Of course, Sherlock. What is it?"

His eyes lock with mine and I can see his nerves relax a little. With a heavy sigh and in a low whisper, Sherlock asks me the question I really didn't expect:

"Will you sleep with me tonight?"

_**Yay! I was able to finish this before I had to go back into work mod. Thank to all who have reviewed and followed and added to their favorites. **_

_**I hope ya'll didn't think the cliff hanger-if you could call it that- was too cheesy. I honestly felt like he would ask her at this point just because he feels like he owes it to her for putting her through this Moriarty chaos. And this is not the end of Hattie's involvement in the story; I have plans for her and for their friendship. Mwhahaha (too much? Yeah too much)**_

_**Once again I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks. **_


	9. Chapter 9: Feelings

_Chapter 9: Feelings_

The cab ride is silent and the tension is thick: We don't speak. We don't look at each other. If it wasn't necessary, one could say we don't even breathe. His long, pale fingers are intertwined with mine, nervously tapping away on my knuckles. My heart is racing with anticipation, nearly pounding out of my chest and spilling all of my emotions and nerves.

Dear God, can this cab go any faster?

The car stops, as does Sherlock's rhythm on my hand. He pays the driver, grabs my things, and we both head into 221b faster than the speed of light. There is no time to waste, nor a moment to spare. I need this right now; we both do.

"John's not back yet," Sherlock says as he shuts the door with his free hand, "Which gives us pretty good window of time."

"You make it all sound so romantic," I tease, hooking my thumbs into his belt loops and pulling him in for a kiss. Sherlock's lips caress my own in a way that I've never experienced before. I can feel my cheeks become hot and pink; He must be getting impatient.

"Get up those stairs." He whispers before kissing me again.

"So aggressive." I reply with a smirk. We bolt up to the living room, each taking the stairs two at a time. Unexpectedly, just as I am about to step through the archway, Sherlock takes hold of my waist to hold me back.

"I was expected to be back until much later," he says with a twinge of regret.

"So?" I ask

"So, that means Mrs. Hudson is cleaning our flat."

"I thought you said she wasn't your housekeeper?" and, as if on cue, Sherlock and John's sweet, elderly land lady rounds the corner to greet us.

"Sherlock, the mess you've made in the kitchen," she says, flinging around her Swiffer, "Honestly, did you plan on bringing the love of your life home to a complete mess? And why are soaking wet?"

Sherlock gives off a loud, annoyed sigh like a teenager who has just been told to do their chores, and pushes past her to enter the living room; God, he is really getting impatient.

Mrs. Hudson just shakes her head at him, and then turns to me with open arms; "Elfie, dearie," she coos while giving me a matriarchal hug, "I was so glad when Sherlock told me the news. Were you surprised?"  
"Um, yeah I was, a bit, yeah." I say, returning the gesture. Since Sherlock and mine's relationship started, Mrs. Hudson's been like a mother to me. She's the only one I can really talk to when I need advice. But right now, I'm trying my best to hurry up the polite greetings. To be quiet frank, I'm just as eager as Sherlock.

"If you need anything at all, dear, just come to me," she says, placing her hands on my shoulders, "I'm not their housekeeper, you know, but the boys can be, well, boys. Especially Sherlock: Always leaving a muck of things all about the house. Did he ever tell you about the time I found a bag of thumbs in the fridge?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, he did." I say, with a giggle.

"Elfie is very much aware of my various hobbies, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock adds in, removing his blazer and quickly tossing it aside, "If she wasn't comfortable with them, I think she would have left me long ago."

"Keeping body parts around the house is not a hobby, young man," She scolds in her motherly way, "Maybe having a female presence in this flat at all times will remind you to keep things a bit more tidy."

"Oh I doubt that," I say, "you know how stubborn he is. Anyway, thank you for allowing me to move in, Mrs. Hudson. I promise that as soon as my next pay check comes in, I'll put in my share for rent an…"

"Don't you make a fuss about all that right now," She says, with a small wave of her hand, "You just make yourself all comfortable and settled in. We can discuss all that over a nice cuppa tomorrow. Have a good night, you two."

"Goodnight." I call back as she heads downstairs to her flat.

"Finally." Sherlock breathes out, and before, I can even turn around, he scoops me up into his arms like a child, kissing me over and over again.

"Can I at least get out of these damp clothes first?" I giggle, kicking off my boots and wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Of course," He whispers as he very carefully, lays me down onto the couch, "Allow me to help you."

Sherlock looms over me and gently starts to undress me. Once the coat is removed, he moves his hands across my waist to push up my maroon, long sleeve shirt up over my head. I am paralyzed by his touch; I gaze deeply into those sea foam orbs of his and let out a content sigh. My mind shuts down to autopilot as I allow Sherlock to lift me back up again into his cradling arms. I close my eyes and tangle my fingers in those damp, dark curls of his as we passionately exchange the deepest kisses either of us has experienced.

"Sherlock," I say in between breathes of air, "I love you."

This all happened in a blur. In a way, I never said yes nor did I say no. Sherlock had asked me to sleep with him and that was that. I had looked him in the eye to make sure he was serious which lead to a fast make-out session in the lift and a wordless agreement that tonight would be the night:

The night we take that next, crucial step in our relationship.

"My darling, darling girl," Sherlock sighs onto my bare shoulder, "I love you even more." Overcome with the need for things to escalate much faster, I hook my legs around his waist and blindly remove his black silk shirt. Within seconds, Sherlock is rubbing his hands up and down my bareback and we are blindly heading toward the bedroom, our lips still locked in a kiss.

Once inside, Sherlock gently sets me down atop the sheets and kicks of his shoes. I hook my thumbs into the belt loop of his pants and pull his waist down as close to me as possible. Just as my fingers are about to undue his trousers, Sherlock's lips quickly pull away from mine. His breathing is fast and I notice he's starting to tremble.

The situation has become real to him; He's nervous.

"Hey," I say, nuzzling my forehead his, "you okay?"  
"I'm fine…I'm fine." He pants, closing his eyes tight, "Just…I'm fine."  
"For the smartest man in London, you really are a bad liar." I tease, gently cupping his sweaty face in my hands. Sherlock lets out a relived chuckle and relaxes his body a little. We nuzzle our foreheads together and listen to each other breathe for a bit. "You know," I whisper, gently massaging his temples, "We don't have to do this."

Sherlock shakes his head: "No, no, I want to. I…I owe it to you."

"Honey, you don't owe me anything," I say, resting my hands on his bare shoulders, "I only want to go through with this, if you truly want to."

He opens his eyes and stares at me with that deducing gaze, as if to find the answer in my face. My hands slide down his surprisingly strong arms and intertwine with his; I squeeze his hands as if to telepathically tell him that it's all right for him not to be ready for this. Sherlock's never gone this far in a relationship before…well, to be fair; neither have I.

Yes, there was the occasional guy in college who wanted to go all the way, but for some reason it just never felt right. Does that make me old fashioned? Perhaps, but I've always wanted to share the experience with someone I truly loved. With Sherlock, I want that feeling. The feeling that this is exactly what perfection is like. Just me, him and our love is all I ask for.

After a few moments of searching, Sherlock nuzzles his head under my chin and listens to my heartbeat. I place a comforting kiss on the top of his mop of curls and gently stroke his bare back. It's okay, if he's not ready. I'll wait for him. To my surprise, however, Sherlock begins to intertwine his long legs with mine. Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment and I can see that he truly wants this. With a nod, I take in a sharp breath as his fingers start to tangle themselves with my jeans.

"Your heart rate has quickened." He says, gently caressing my neck with his lips.

"Quite the deduction, detective," I tease, and in an instant our lips in a tight lock again. I close my eyes and allow myself to give in fully to my dear Sherlock Holmes, the man and only love of my life.

The world stops spinning.

Time passes at the speed of sound.

There is nothing except us, and this moment: This long, weighted for moment.

"How about the tiny one on your wrist?"

"Zip tie. Hostage situation when I was 27, during one of my first cases. Needless to say, I got away with just this scratch. That flower on your right shoulder?"

"My 18th birthday present from myself. I wanted to piss off my mother so I snuck out late, met up with a couple of girls from school, drank and got a tattoo. Stupid, right?"

Sherlock props himself up on his left elbow, adjusting the sheets around his waist so that from his torso and up is visible, and runs his long pale fingers across my red hibiscus body art, which has dulled over the years. "I think it's quite beautiful." He whispers, "Even if you got it because of adolescent reasons." With a small laugh, I lift my head ever so slightly so that my lips meet his in a soft kiss.

We've been laying here for God knows how long examining one another; I, on my stomach and with part of the sheet tangled around me, am finding out the stories behind all the small scars on Sherlock's body and he, on his side, is deducing every inch of my skin. Both of our clothes are thrown about on the floor somewhere, but neither of us wants to get up to retrieve them. It would kill this moment; disrupt the peaceful, afterwards phase. That's the last thing I would want after what has just transpired between us.

It was perfect, it was just absolutely right.

"What about this little mark?" I ask, pressing my index finger on a small, nearly microscopic mark on the upper half of his right arm. Sherlock turns his head to view the spot, and then lets out a soft, baritone chuckle.

"Your eyes are getting better at noticing the unnoticeable, darling," he says with a proud smile, "I was rather hoping you wouldn't ask me about that one."

"Oh," I ask, become a tad bit more curious, "Is it something your ashamed of, because you know that I don't care. I won't judge you."

"I know, dear, I know," he says, taking my hand into his and studying it, "In a way, yes. You could say that I am ashamed of it. It's from a case, a more recent one."

"Before or after you met me?" I ask. When it comes to the timeline of Sherlock's cases, I go off of pre-Chinese Smuggling gang to present day. It's just easier for me that way.

"After I met you, but before we were together." He explains. Sherlock pauses for a moment as if to figure out how to word what he's going to say next, then takes a deep breath, "Do you remember when John had to text you all those months ago?" he continues in an embarrassed tone, "He needed your help when I-When I was…unwillingly intoxicated."

"Oh, ho, yeah!" I say with a laugh, "I remember! It was a few weeks after you took me along to my first crime scene. Yeah, John texted me saying that he needed my help because you had gotten yourself drugged. Hahaha, oh that was a fun night. I had to help John carry you up the stairs while you were semi-consciously mumbling about a hiker and a boomerang. Did John ever tell you that that night, you told me my eyes were perfect like the center of an atom? Honestly, honey, I've spent months trying to figure out what that means."

"Yes, yes, thank you for that lovely reminder." Sherlock quickly says with a roll of his eyes, "Anyways, my point for bring that up is what put me in that predicament was an unexpected snag in the matters around the case I was working on."

"Right, the case with the picture phone, I remember." I say with a nod. Then a light bulb dings on in my brain, "That mark on your arm. It's from her isn't it? It's from Irene Adler."  
"Yes." Sherlock confirms, looking down at my hand to concentrate on massaging my knuckles, "It's from her; the woman." With a heavy sigh, I take my hand away and quickly turn my back on him.

I hate that he calls her that: _'the woman.'_ It makes it seem like they had a thing going on. I know in my heart that they didn't but, for goodness sake; Sherlock saved her life in the Middle East and helped her escape! Yeah, I know all about that. I was the one who helped him put together a disguise because I know more about Middle Eastern cultures then he does! Ugh, I regret doing it, but it what was I to do? I was hopelessly in love with this man and if helping save his dominatrix, backstabbing, crush made him happy then so be it. Hell, I even know where he keeps that stupid phone of hers.

I made a promise to Sherlock that I wouldn't tell a soul about what happened in exchange that he would never bring the matter up to me ever again. True, since becoming a couple, the fact that Irene Adler had such an impact on Sherlock's life is something we can't avoid. Still, the mere mention of her presence makes me want to punch a wall. I hate her and I never even met her nor do I ever want to. If she even dared to show her face in England again, I give a piece of my mind…and my fist.

"Elfie," Sherlock says, wrapping his arms around my waist, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't," I grudgingly reply, "and it's my fault anyway. I asked about the scar. It's just…well, you know how I feel about that whole incident."

"I know."

"I mean Irene Adler was your first kind of love, wasn't she? You had feelings for her."

"Not at all like the feelings I have for you."

"So you did have something with her?" I ask, turning on my side to face him properly, "Be honest."

"Fee, what that woman was, was a mistake." Sherlock admits with a heavy sigh, "Her line of work required her to manipulate the human need for affection and…she never failed." His eyes gaze away from me for a moment in deep thought, then slowly turn back to me, "I fell for her tricks, yes. I have come to terms with that now. But did I love her? Not in the slightest way, no."

"You mean that?" I ask, just make sure for my own personal sanity.

"Absolutely," Sherlock says as he gently strokes my bare back, "During my time with her, I'll admit, my lifestyle was altered. I had no idea how to deal with her spell over me. It was all a lie and it took me far to long to realize it. I have heard my brother and John say since then that the idea love will always be a mystery to me, but I have proven them wrong."

"How so?" I say, already knowing the answer.

"Well, you're here aren't you?" he teases, pulling me in a close as possible and nuzzling his forehead against mine, "My darling, darling, girl." I let out a soft giggle and embrace him in a kiss. The bastard always knows how to turn my moods around in the blink of an eye. Maybe that's why we never argue. He's clever enough to stay on my good side. Well…not all the time.

"So, you two leave me at the morgue just so you can come back and have a shag? Oh, very polite of you. I mean really."

Both Sherlock and I quickly sit up at the surprising sound of John's voice. We look to see the doctor standing the archway of the bedroom with his arms folded across his chest and a small smile across his face. My cheeks flush pink and I hide my bare body behind Sherlock; Good God, this is awkward.

"John," Sherlock says, clearing his throat, "you're late."

"Am I late or you just didn't expect me to back before you two were done?" John teases, "I climbed up the stairs, noticed the suitcase a pillow by the door and followed breadcrumb trail of clothing to your bedroom. Or should I say, yours and Elfie's bedroom, now." He gives me a small wave and a brotherly wink. "So I'm assuming Sherlock told you about the text and everything?"

"Yeah," I reply, wrapping my arms around Sherlock's waist and resting my chin on his shoulder, "it's all fine."

"Fine?" John asks, "That psycho just threatened your life and you're okay with it?"

"Well, no, but, I can take care of myself. And besides, I've got my own guardian angel looking out for me." Sherlock turns his head to look at me, and smiles. I smile back and we kiss again.

"Well as sweet as that sentiment is, I'm going to have to break this up." John says with a sigh.

"Why would you want to do that?" Sherlock sighs, looking deeply into my eyes and kissing my jaw line.

"Because your brother is sitting in our living room waiting for you." John states rather matter of factly.

Sherlock snaps his head back to look at John and narrows his brow; "Why?" he hisses.

"Wouldn't tell me," John replies, "said it's for your ears only."

"Damn Mycroft and his power complex," Sherlock grumbles, rising out of bed and taking the sheet with him.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute," I say quickly covering my body with the duvet, "Sherlock don't you want to put some clothes on?"  
"Dull." He mumbles, fixating himself a sort of make shift toga. Without another word, Sherlock storms out of the bedroom and down the hall to the living room. I sigh heavily and slowly climb out of bed.

"I don't think I'll ever get him, John." I say

"Yeah, well, join the club." He says, staring down the hall, "What do you think Mycroft wants?"

"Don't know. I've never met him." I reply, finding one Sherlock's button-ups and slipping it on; it's just long enough that half of my thigh is covered.

"Shut up, really?" John asks in disbelief, "You've been Sherlock's girlfriend for a year and have never met Mycroft Holmes?"

"Nope."

"Damn."

"What?"

"Your lucky. I meant the guy on the first day I met Sherlock. He asked me to spy on him for money."

I due up the third to top button and join John in the archway. "Sounds like a caring brother," I say sarcastically.

"Oh you have no idea." John chuckles, "Come on, I'll put the kettle on and we'll hide out in the kitchen to see what the hell is going on." I nod and follow behind John. Suddenly, he stops mid step and turns to face me with that smart grin of his: "So? How was it?"

"How was-Oh God, shut up, John." I say, punching his shoulder.

"Hey! We're flat mates now, I have a right to know these things." He says, continuing to walk.

Suddenly, there is sound of loud shouting coming from the living room causing both John and I to freeze mid-step. It's Sherlock's voice and he does not sound even remotely okay with whatever it is he and his brother are discussing. I look at John and he just shakes his head.

"Get use to it," he says, "you live at Baker Street now. Normality never happens here."

_**And surprise, I updated early! Well, kind of, sort of. Late night writing and all…anyway, I need to say thank you to you all for the wonderful responses I received from the previous chapter. Truly it means a lot to me that so many of you are enjoying this story. I do have other stories planed for Elfie and Sherlock but I have to plot them out. I will post them when I think they are ready.**_

_**Hello and thank you to all the new followers and to those who have stuck with it!**_

_**My schedule is going to be a bit hectic these next few days but I will try my best to update ASAP. **_

_**Once again I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	10. Chapter 10: The 'You' of the Past

_Chapter 10: The 'You' of the Past_

"Get out, Mycroft!"

"There is no need to get so upset, brother."

"Like Hell there isn't! You have no right to pry into this matter!"

"Don't I? You forget, Sherlock, that as your older brother it is my job-"

"It is NOT your job to interfere with matters that do not concern you! I don't need you to watch over me like a hawk; I am no longer a child!"

"Then stop acting like one! Your welfare does, in fact, concern me. Please stop being so immature and answer the question."

"Do try to get this through your skull because I won't repeat it again: It. Doesn't. Concern. You. Now, take your bloody umbrella along with your enormous ego, and clear out of my flat!"

John and I quietly sit in the kitchen, hidden from view, and listen to the loud, heated, exchange of words between Sherlock and Mycroft. Honestly, I'd be surprised if these two couldn't be heard on the other side of London. I have never heard Sherlock raise his voice in such anger; Of course, when we fought last night, he was upset, but not nearly as much as he sounds right now.

No, not upset: Furious.

That's it; He is absolutely furious with Mycroft.

Why?

"Do they always talk to each other like that?" I ask in a low voice, making sure I'm not heard in the next room (although, I could scream at the top of my lungs and they probably still wouldn't hear me over their shouting).

"Yes and no," John replies, finishing up making the tea, "it's usually just a quick conversation about whatever has brought them together at the moment, a petty insult here and there, then they say goodbye and go about their lives. They don't get along, but they don't hate each other. You seriously have never met Mycroft?"

I shake my head no; "I know he works for the government, but that's it. Sherlock's never really told me about his relationship with his brother." I confess, "I always assumed that there was some huge falling out between them and they just haven't spoken to each other since. Seems like they bicker like every other pair of siblings, though."

"Yeah, but these are the Holmes brothers," John points out, sitting across from me and passing me a cup, "they are definitely not 'like every other pair of siblings'."

I nod and take a sip of my tea: Sherlock is unlike any one else in the world, why would his brother be normal?  
"Why can't you just answer the question?" we hear Mycroft shout.

"Why are so desperate for an answer?" Sherlock hisses back, "You've already decided on one. You know who I called and thus assumed that the reason I was calling them was that I was getting back into old habits."

I look over at John with a confused expression: "Old habits?" I ask, but John is just as lost as I am.

"Are you?" Mycroft asks, slyly, "Cases have been coming in very slowly and I know how you get when you're bored."

"I don't have to hear this from you!" Sherlock snaps, sounding a tinsy bit insulted, "Leave! Now!"

"Does your girlfriend know about your past?"

Silence. John and I look at each other; we can feel the tension from here. This is not going to end well.

"Oh, don't look so shocked." Mycroft goes on with an arrogant tone to his voice (must be a family trait), "You knew that I'd find out about her. It has been almost a year."

"Leave!" Sherlock hisses with an icy sting

"When do I get to meet my potential sister-in-law?"

"I SAID LEAVE!"

Suddenly, there is the loud stomping of feet, a door slam and then silence. The air is still and the tension is thick. What just happened? Did Mycroft leave? Did Sherlock leave? Anxious to see, John and I rise from our stools and tiptoe over to the archway.

We peer around the frame to look into the living room and I am surprised to see the back of a tall, well-dressed man standing beside Sherlock's, now empty, chair. This must be Mycroft Holmes.

He looks nothing like his brother. True, both are tall, pale and dark haired, but Mycroft's features aren't as distinct as Sherlock's: no sharp cheekbones or unruly curls and his nose is a bit more like a beak. He looks like the sort of man who would hold a place in the British government; very posh and business like.

"Well, John, it appears that my brother is not in the mood for conversation." Mycroft says, turning around to face us, "It will-Oh, were you busy?" He swings his black umbrella up and points it directly at me. I'm frozen in shock: what is he implying?

"Oh, no, no!" John quickly says, shaking his head at me then at Mycroft, "She's-This is…"

"Elfie. Elfie Stegerson." I say, swallowing my nerves, "but, I think you already knew that…Mycroft."

"Ah! My baby brother's female companion." The elder Holmes gives off a small chuckle and picks up his black brief case from the floor, "I should've guessed by the shirt."

Quickly remembering that I'm wearing nothing except Sherlock's shirt, I blush an embarrassing red and quickly hide behind John. Not exactly how I planned on meeting a member of the British government.

"Tell my brother, John, that I will be looking into this matter even further whether he likes it or not." Mycroft goes on, adjusting his large overcoat.

"I-I'm sorry but what is going on?" John asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Is Sherlock alright?"

"Oh, fine as he'll ever be." Mycroft says with a heavy sigh, "My brother had made a phone call today, approximately an hour and a half ago, to a Vladimir DeMarco, an old, very dangerous, and cunning acquaintance of his. They met when my brother had more…questionable habits." He gives John a raised eyebrow look causing the doctor to sigh with realization.

"I'll keep an eye on Sherlock." John promises with a heavy nod, "The flat's clean, but, well, this is Sherlock were talking about. Thanks Mycroft."

"Thank you, John." Mycroft says with a nod, then heads out the door leaving me dumbfounded.

"Wait, what just happened?" I ask, setting a hand on John's shoulder, "John? Is there something I'm missing here?"

"It appears my brother hasn't told you all of his dirty little secrets." Mycroft calls from over his shoulder, "Perhaps there are some things that should be left unsaid. So glad to have finally met you, Ms. Stegerson." And with that, he heads down the stairs and out into the stormy London streets. I stare at the empty space where Mycroft had stood, blinking in confusion.

Did that really just happen?

John gives off a heavy sigh and pats my shoulder; "Do you still want to finish your tea?" he asks, heading to the kitchen. I shake my head and give John a confusing look: There's obviously a serious issue here and John's asking me about my tea? God, he's so British.

"Wait, don't you wanna tell me something?" I ask, following him, "I mean-What the hell was all that? Does Mycroft just cause a scene, act all mysterious and then leave?"

"Sound familiar?" John teases, but his voice is not as perky as usual. I look him directly in the eyes and I can immediately tell that he knows something.

"What did Mycroft mean by that?" I inquire, folding my arms across my chest, "About 'Sherlock's dirty, little secrets', what does that even mean?"

"It's not my place to say," John says, setting the cups in the sink, "Fee, did…did Sherlock make a phone call after you two left the lab?"

"Um, I think he did when we went to my place. Yeah, he took it out in the hall while I was packing, but why is that important right now?"

John shakes his head and looks down at his feet. "It's not really my place to tell you this," he says with a hint of regret, "but as your friend and as someone who wants to see yours and Sherlock's relationship grow, I…" he takes a deep breath then turns back to face me, "Okay…That first case I worked on with Sherlock, the Study in Pink, I learned that he use to…He was into, or rather, use to be into…"

"Oh my God, John, spit it out!" I say, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him slightly, "It's annoying, this whole dodging the bullet thing. Just tell me."

"Sherlock use to do drugs." John declares, taking my hands into his in a brotherly fashion, "I don't know what or why or any of that. All I know is that when I moved in, Mycroft instructed me to keep a close eye on Sherlock just so that if he did go back on drugs, I could help him. You know, as a medical professional not just as a friend."

I gulp down my emotions and shake my head. I don't want to talk about this, but it has to be discussed: "Yeah, I…I know." I mumble.

"You do?" John asks, surprised, "Did…did Sherlock tell you?"

"No, I figured it out." I say, "When we were lying in bed, before you walked in…I saw track marks all along his right arm. Faded obviously, but there's one right below his elbow that has left a pretty noticeable scar. John, you don't think…" I bite my lip in fear of what I'm thinking. I don't want it to be true. It can't be true. "Do think he called this Vladimir DeMarco guy because he needed a fix?"

"No." John says with determination, "absolutely not. Sherlock is clean. I know he is."

"Then why did he call this guy?" I ask,

"Because I'm working on a case."

John and I exchange a look of regret then slowly turn around to see Sherlock standing in the archway of the kitchen, fiddling with something in his hands. He's dressed, now, in his blue flannel pants and grey t-shirt but he doesn't look comfortable. His normally pale face is flushed with anger and his eyes are wide and red with held back tears. He looks like a volcano of emotion that's just about to erupt.

"Monroe was rumored to have a drug problem. That's why he stole the money from Robert St. Simon," He says, trying to keep his voice calm and clear, "But we now know that he was set up and then poisoned. After we had found the white powder, I knew that that was what had killed him. But where did he get it? Who bought the poison? I called the only person I knew who could answer these questions. It was a risk, but it was for the case." Sherlock tosses John the item he's been fiddling with and the confused doctor catches it; it's the small, plastic baggie of white powder that we had retrieved from Monroe's things.

"You called a drug dealer because you needed to identify the powder." John says, with an understanding nod, "I see. You were using your resources."

"Yes," Sherlock says, "contrary to my brother's accusation, I did not call him to get back into my old habits."

"I shouldn't have doubted you." John says, shaking his head, "I know you."

"100 percent?" Sherlock asks as he locks eyes with his best friend. John smiles and gives him an affirmative nod. Once again, their friendship has overcome everything. "John, keep a hold of that." he goes on, "I made an appointment with DeMarco for tomorrow afternoon and I don't want…I don't want that stuff near me."

"Got it." John replies, stuffing the bag in his back trouser pocket.

Sherlock nods then looks at me with all the sadness in the world "John, have you got that toxin report from the morgue?" he asks, still looking at me,

"By your computer." John says motioning toward the desk with his head.

"Good. Elfie will you take a look at it for me?" I nod and start to walk toward him, but Sherlock quickly turns around in a flurry toward the living room. I start to follow, but John grabs me by the elbow.

"Let him be." He whispers, "Just let this pass."

"No," I say, gently shaking him off, "I need to talk to him."

"Fee."

"Let me talk to him."

The flat is suddenly filled with the sweet sound of violin music, Sherlock's music. John and I both know that this means Sherlock is extremely upset. Music is his escape whether it be from a difficult case, being called 'freak' one to many times or just from the world in general. I think, right now, whatever Mycroft was implying hurt him deeply and now he's seeking refuge in his music. He needs to be comforted, even though he'll never say it.

Realizing this, John lets go of my elbow and gives me a small nod. I nod back and enter the living room as quietly as I can, trying not to interrupt the music. I watch Sherlock intently with a worried look on my face; His shaking hands are gripped tight onto his bow and instrument, making his knuckles turn white. I can see that his mind is elsewhere, lost in that mind palace of his, and separated from the world around him. He probably doesn't even know that I'm watching him.

Good God, Mycroft must have really pissed him off.

"Sherlock." I say, slowly stepping closer to him

His bow stops, mid-stroke but he doesn't move from his spot at the window. "You're upset with me." He says, not daring to turn around, "I've disappointed you."

"No you haven't." I say in my defense, "Sherlock, I don't care about your past and if…"

"Then why didn't you say anything about the marks on my arm?" he shoots out, spinning around to look at me, "You see, this was the exact thing I was trying to avoid! Mycroft needs to stay out of this and now he's made the one person that matters to me think that I'm back on…" He closes his eyes and turns back around to the window. "You should let this go." He whispers, his voice sounding more hurt then upset, "Maybe-maybe you should start to unpack or look over the report like I asked or…God, just don't look at me that way. Don't look at me like I've disappointed you."

With the loving girlfriend side of me kicking in, I run over to him and wrap my arms around his waist in a tight, but comforting embrace. His body tenses up in confusion, but then relaxes as soon as he realizes that I really am not upset with him.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, setting down his instrument, "I wasn't thinking properly just now."

"I know." I say, resting my head against his back.

"I was going to tell you about my old…"

"Sherlock, I don't care."

"Why?" He asks, slowly turning around to face me, "Why don't you care?"

"Because I love you." I say, brushing a stray curl out of his eyes, "I'm in love with you of the now, not you of the past. Does it upset me that you use to do drugs? Yes, but that doesn't mean I love you any less."'

Sherlock sighs heavily and places a soft kiss on my forehead; "I don't want to talk about this right now. I want to block out any element of that time from my mind. I want to forget all about it." He says, rubbing his hands up and down my arms "But…are you wearing my shirt?"

I giggle at Sherlock's obvious observation. "You know, it's your simple deductions that remind me of how brilliant you are." I tease, trying my best to lighten the mood. Sherlock smiles and pulls me in for an affectionate hug.

"Thank you." He sighs,

"For what?" I ask, nuzzling my head under his chin.

"For staying with me." He says, "I don't deserve someone like you."

"Why, Sherlock Holmes, I do believe your going soft." I say, kissing his neck. Sherlock chuckles as he squeezes me even tighter. "I love you," I remind him as I lift up my head to look at that beautiful face of his.

"I love you too." He says, looking down into my eyes, "Do you mind looking over that report for me?"

"It's always work, work, work with you isn't it?" I tease, kissing his cheek. We part and I walk over to the desk to pick up the toxin report. "I don't know what half this stuff means." I say, gazing over the bolded medical jargon.

"Then it's a good thing we have a doctor in the flat." Sherlock replies, picking up his violin again. I chuckle and shake my head as I walk back toward the kitchen to speak with John.

"Fee?"  
"Yeah, Sherlock." I says, pausing in the kitchen archway and turning back to look at my boyfriend.

"I'm sorry you had to meet Mycroft." He says

"Oh I've had more embarrassing situations than meeting a member of the government in noting but my boyfriend's shirt." I joke, "It's all fine."

"You misunderstand me." Sherlock says, looking over his shoulder, "I'm sorry you had to meet Mycroft _at all_."

"Oh." I chuckle, "He didn't seem that bad."

"He's a clot."

"He's your brother."

"Still a clot."

I laugh and run back over to Sherlock. I place a kiss on his cheek just as he begins to play a soft classical melody. Mozart perhaps? Sherlock turns his head slightly so that my kiss lands on the corner of his mouth.

"You a mystery Sherlock Holmes," I say, walking away again, "I wouldn't want you any other way."

_**Hello, hello, hello! So ***__**whipes sweat from brow**__*** this chapter is done and my finals are almost over. Which means, I'll be able to update sooner and get to work on those other stories. Thank you all for continuing to follow, favorite and comment. Really the comments keep me motivated.**_

_**Once again, I don't own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	11. Chapter 11: Moon River

_Chapter 11: Moon River_

"Alright, so, we have assumed that Monroe was poisoned, right?"

"Right."

"And, from what Molly told us, we know that he was experiencing pneumonia like symptoms before he died."

"Okay."

"We can concur that he was taking medication for pneumonia from this report, but there was no trace of any lethal narcotics in his system, none except this high percentage of salicylic acid."

"Okay."

John looks up from the report and stares at me from across the table: "You have no idea what that is do you Fee?"

"Nope." I say with a shake of my head.

"And you haven't been listening to a word I've said have you?"

"Not for the past five minutes, no."

A smile grows across the doctor's face and we both start to laugh. We have been sitting at the kitchen table for nearly an hour and a half, looking over this report. Sherlock has stopped playing his violin and disappeared to his bedroom along with his laptop. I think John and I talking was distracting him; He likes absolute silence when he works.

John's been attempting to explain the medical terminology of the toxin report to me, along with the differences between what is considered lethal and non-lethal dosage of all the listed medications. Honestly, I feel like I'm back in college, listening to my science professor go on and on about things that just don't make sense to the normal human being. It's no offense to John; I just don't get all this sort of stuff. I'm a historian, not a chemist.

"I'm sorry," I say, rubbing my face to wake myself up, "I know this is important and I'm trying to understand it."  
"No, I get it. It's been a long day for you." John says, "What with being dragged across London by your boyfriend and then moving into a new flat. How did Sherlock tell you that, by the way? Did he just drop it on you or did you guys talk about it first?"

"He told me about the text Moriarty had sent this morning, then told me that I needed to pack because I'd be moving in with you guys. Simple as that."

"Leave it to Sherlock to make the next big step in your guys relationship about Moriarty." John says with a light roll of his eyes, "That's got to bother you a bit, doesn't it?"

"Well, yes and no. I think it was kind of sweet, actually" I counter point, "Sherlock wants to watch over me and, well, I've never had someone care about me in the way he does before. Don't get me wrong, I hate what Moriarty does to Sherlock, but that comes with being his girlfriend, I guess."

John smiles and rises from his stool; "You two have the oddest relationship, do you know that?" He teases, "Seriously, normal girls would go running out the door as soon as they heard all about Sherlock's antics."

"Then I guess I'm not a normal girl." I say, with a proud smirk.

"Oh God knows, I'm aware of that." John laughs. He wraps his arms around my shoulders in a brotherly hug and gently squeezes. "You're good for him, Fee. I'll never stop reminding you of that."

"Thanks John." I say, standing up and hugging him properly.

Good ol' Doctor Watson: The best friend anyone could ask for.

"Well, I'm going to turn in for the night." He says when we part, "I've got go in the clinic at 7am tomorrow morning. You gong to stay up a bit longer? Study that report maybe."

"Nah, I'm right behind you," I say, stretching my arms above my head, "My brain is fried with all that medical talk." John chuckles then turns to leave the kitchen. "Hey, um, John?" I ask, quickly remembering what I wanted to know earlier before this whole Monroe thing happened, "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, what is it?" John yawns from the archway.

"Do Sherlock and I…Do we make you feel awkward?"

"What?" John says with a laugh, "Where's this coming from?"

"Well it was just something I was thinking today when I was at lunch with Robert and Hattie." I say, fiddling with the sleeve buttons of the black button up I'm still wearing, "They're so touchy, feely all the time and it's kind of annoying."

"Some couples are like that."

"Yeah, but it makes me feel so uncomfortable to be around them. I feel like an unwanted guest." I go on, "Anyway, I don't want you to ever feel like that."

"Well, now that you mention it," John says, playfully putting his hands on his hips, "it was a bit awkward to walk in on you two shagging this afternoon."

"That's what I mean!" I say, blushing a bright red, "That was embarrassing and I…"

"Fee, I'm only teasing," John says with a smile then pats me on the shoulder, "It was my own fault: I walked into the bedroom. Look, I promise you, if you and Sherlock ever make me feel like I'm the odd one out, I'll let you know."

"Promise?"

"Of course."

Feeling relieved, I give John a quick hug and place a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thanks John." I say, "I needed to get that off my chest."

"Anytime." He says, returning the hug, "And I'm glad your living here now, Fee. Maybe you can make Sherlock behave."

"That's what Mrs. Hudson said. What do guys think I'm his babysitter or something?" John shrugs and we both laugh: "G'night, John." I say, heading down the hall, "See you in the morning."

"Good night." He calls back.

I reach the bedroom door and gently knock. The light is on but I don't want to disturb Sherlock if he's deep in his work.

"It's open." Comes the reply from within. I twist the knob and tiptoe inside. Sherlock is lying in bed, propped up on his elbows and starting at his laptop in his lap. He looks so tired and I can tell that he's fighting off sleep just to get his work done: blinking every 5 seconds, snapping his drooping head back up every time he starts to nod off. I'm not going to lie, he looks quiet adorable.

"You do realize you don't have to knock," Sherlock says, not even looking up from the screen, "this is your room now as well."

"I didn't want to break your concentration." I say, climbing into bed beside him. Still not looking away from the screen, Sherlock hooks his arm around me and pulls me in next to him as close as possible. "What are you doing?" I ask, resting my head on his chest and wrapping my arms around his waist.

"Reading up on the finance reports for Robert St. Simon's Company." He says, "I need to see if there is any trace of Monroe's transactions before Robert caught on to him."

"How did you get access to these?" I ask, looking over the columns of numbers, but Sherlock just chuckles and continues to scroll.

Right, I probably don't even want to know.

"You and John get anything out of the toxin report?" he asks,

"Oh, um, yeah." I say, trying my best to remember what John was saying, "There was a high amount of sal…Sala…oh damn, Sala-something or other acid in his system."

"Salicylic?" Sherlock asks with a chuckle.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Not really cut out for the chemical aspects of cases are you?" he teases, placing a kiss on my forehead.

"No, not really," I say, "Ancient World History Major, remember?"

"Of course," he says, adjusting his hold around me, "I'll just take a look at the report for myself."

"Hey, I tried." I say, playfully elbowing his side, "Give me some credit." Sherlock gives off a deep chuckle and leans in to kiss my cheek. To catch him by surprise, I turn my head so that his lips land on my own. His mouth turns up in a grin as our kiss deepens. The next thing I know, we nuzzled up close together, under the covers; his computer is off to the side near the foot of the bed, clearly no longer holding his interest.

"Have I got your attention?" I tease, cupping his face in my hands. Sherlock nods and kisses me again. His right hand gently entangles itself in my dark hair and his left is resting comfortably on my lower back. When our lips part, I rest my head on his chest and listen to his steady heart beat.

"Oh my darling, darling girl." He whispers, holding me close. I close my eyes and take in this wonderful moment. I love it when I can get him to break away from work for just a short while and be with me. Is that selfish of me? Maybe, but I can't help it. I love him.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Unfortunately, the moment is quickly killed by the annoying sound of my phone. I groan and hide my face in Sherlock's shirt; really whoever you are? You had to call right now?

_Ring. Ring. Ring. _

"You should get that." Sherlock mumbles, gently massaging the back of my neck, "It will only keep ringing." I moan in annoyance and slowly lift my head to look into those deep bluish-green eyes of his; why can't I just get lost in them?

"Why?" I grumble, "It can't be important."

"It must be," he says, "why else would anyone call you at 11pm?"

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Giving Sherlock one more peck on the lips, I grudgingly toss off the covers and scurry to grab my phone from jeans that been laying on the floor all day. Pulling out the device, I answer the call just before it rings out:

"Hello?"  
"Oh, well this is a surprise!" comes the sarcastic reply, "You actually picked up; you must have some time to spare. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me! I got out of bed with Sherlock for this?

"Hi, Mom." I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose in annoyance.

"Hello, sweet heart. How's life in Jolly Ol' England?"

"Fine."

"Just fine? You haven't called in over a month so I'm assuming you've been doing some exciting things. Tell me."

"I'm sorry I haven't called, Mom. I've been…busy."

"Doing?" she presses with a bit of earnest.

"Well, you know, work at the museum. Oh, we got a brand new Greek artifact exhibit in development and-"

"You sound tired." She interrupts, "Why do you sound so tired?"

I sigh heavily and roll my eyes; "Well probably because it's 11pm here and I was comfortable in bed when you called."

"Honestly, Elfie Marie, stop being so dry with me." She scolds, "I'm only calling to check up on you. Excuse me for caring about you."

'_And scold me about moving away and not taking over the family business.' _I want to say, but I settle with "Sorry."

My mom and I have never really gotten along, despite it being just the two of us for my whole life. I've never known who my father is, nor do I ever want to. Sherlock once offered to locate him for me, but I told him that it wouldn't matter; the man's too late to be any significant figure in my life.

Anyway, my mother is the poster child for 'self-made success'. She raised me all on her own and managed to build up a real-estate business from absolutely nothing. I would wrong in saying she wasn't an inspiration, but at the same time she wasn't very much of a mom. Sure, she tucked me in at night when I was little, told me sweet dreams and things like that, but it was little things that she never did that hurt the most.

As a child, instead of coming to my school events, my mom would send my Aunt Eva to film it for her to watch later.

As a teenager, when I needed someone to talk to about bullies or boys, she'd be too consumed with a client to talk at the moment.

It's a simple picture, really. For my mom there is only work and always striving to be on top. In her eyes, I'm her gawky, nerdy daughter that would much rather spend her afternoon's day dreaming than learning the elements of real estate.

When I had told her that I planned on moving to England after college, she gave me this huge speech about how I was abandoning her and leaving the business to fall into shambles; "Whose going to inherit this when I retire, Elfie Marie?" she had said, "What will become of all I worked for?"

I think it's safe to say that we just don't get along.

"You and Hattie must be busy with all the wedding planning." She says with giddy excitement, "You are still her maid-of-honor, correct?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Well good, I do love that girl, she is the sweetest little thing."

Since her and I became friends, Hattie became my mother's dream child. Not that Hattie was trying to steal away my mom or anything like that; my mom just approved of her more than me. Hattie's blonde, beautiful and showed an interest in my mother's wild stories of building herself up. I'm a dark brunette, average and much more interested in history books; It's obvious why she enjoys Hattie's company more.

"Oh! Let Hattie know that my plane comes in tomorrow afternoon around 11:30." She goes on, "I'll just meet you girls back at your apartment instead of showing up let at the dress shop."

"You...You are coming in tomorrow?" I ask, making sure I heard her correctly.

"Of course, Fee! Did you think that I'd miss Hattie's wedding?"

"No, no, I know you wouldn't. I just mean that…I-I didn't know you'd be flying in so soon." I look toward Sherlock with pleading eyes, in hopes he will give me some sort of escape from this phone call but, unfortunately, he's pulled out his laptop again and is back at work. Ah, well. That was bound to happen.

"Why shouldn't I?" my mother scolds, "Do you not want me there?"

"What would give you that idea?"

There is an odd silence on her end "You're hiding something from me." She says in a quick tone, "Oh is it about that guy you were seeing?"

"What?" I ask confused by this sudden accusation.

"That guy you were with last time you called me," she goes on, "Oh what was his name? It was something obscure and British like Edward or Charles."

"No, Mom." I say, rolling my eyes, "His..."

"You seemed to really like him. Oh, what was it? Henry?"

"No, his name…"

"Jude?"

"No."

"Or maybe it was Benedict…"

"Sherlock!" I spit out before she can guess anymore obscure, not even close names.

"What?" Sherlock asks, looking over at me in confusion. I shake my head at him and brush my hand through the air as if to shoo him back into his mind palace. He scrunches his brow in confusion, but turns back to his computer anyway.

"What was that, Fee?" my mother asks

"That's his name, Mom." I explain, "His name is Sherlock."

"Ah, that's it! Are you still with him?"

"Yes."

"Oh good, maybe I'll finally get to meet him since you never tell me anything about him. What does he even do?"

"He's, uh...He's..." I pause for a moment and think. How does one describe what Sherlock does? "He's a detective."

"Ooo a cop!" she says, "I'm impressed."

"No, not a cop." I correct her, "A detective."

"Consulting detective." Sherlock says under his breath but loud enough for me to hear him. I throw him a sharp look: really? Don't test me right now, Holmes.

"A consulting detective." I correct myself, sticking my tongue out at him.

"What is that?" my mom asks, "Like a P.I?"

"Kind of. He invented the job."

I can hear her give off an annoyed sigh on the other end; "Oh, honestly, Fee, where do you find these guys? These…weirdoes."

"He's not a weirdo, Mom!" I snap, "He happens to be quiet the genius. Look him up! He's got a website!"

She's always been highly critical of my dating life. She wants me to marry some rich, playboy so that I can be a trophy wife, but that's just not me. God, I can only image what she's going to say when she meets Sherlock. She won't approve of him at all.

"Okay, okay, sorry to offend you." She apologizes, but I know she doesn't mean it. "It's just odd. I mean, for starters, not many men are named Sherlock."

"Yeah, well not many women are named Elfie." I counter point with an icy sting.

"It's Old German."

"No, Mom, it isn't. You made it up."

"Don't give me sass, young lady." She snaps, "Don't start acting like you all of a sudden hate your name."  
"Don't start judging my boyfriend before you meet him." I mumble under my breath.

"What was that?" she spits out.

"Nothing," I say, too tired to fight, "Look, Mom, I'll see you tomorrow okay? I need to go to bed."

"Fine." She says with a heavy sigh, "Hand the phone over to Hattie. I need to talk to her."

"She's not here. I'm not at the apartment." I say, trudging over to the bed and taking a seat on the edge.

"Where are you…Oh my God, are you with your boyfriend?"

"Well, as a matter of fact-"

"Oh good God, I had no idea I was interrupting a date!" she exasperates, "Oh and this late a night, which mean you two are probably…Oh my good Lord! Well, you just get back to it honey. Let me know how it goes tomorrow! Ta!" and with that, my mother hangs up.

I let out an aggravated moan as I toss my phone onto the bedside table. Throwing my self down onto the bed, I hide my face in my hands and rub my temples. I want to just lay here and cry which isn't a surprising feeling; my mother always makes me feel like crying.

Suddenly, I feel two comforting arms incase me in a warm embrace. My mouth curves up into a small smile. "Done with the finance reports?" I ask, nuzzling a close as I can to Sherlock.

"I think I've done enough work on that part of the case tonight." He says, holding me like he did before we were so rudely interrupted, "There's a more pressing matter I have to deal with right now."

"What is it?" I ask, sitting up a bit, but he gently presses me back down.

"You." He whispers, stroking my cheek, "Are you alright?" I blush and take his hand into my own.

"I'm okay." I assure him, "Really, I am. I've dealt with my mother for…well my whole life. She's just…I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not the perfect child she's always wanted and I'm okay with that. I'm me and if she doesn't want that then so be it." I take a breath and then shake my head; "Let's not talk about right now." I say, wrapping my arms around him, "I don't want to think about anything negative right now."

Sherlock nods and pulls me in for a kiss. We remain in a deep lip lock for countless minutes, until Sherlock reaches over me to flick off the light. In the complete darkness, we nuzzle in as close together as we comfortably can. Resting my head against Sherlock's chest, I listen to the steady beat of his heart; it's so relaxing. As I close my eyes, I start to hum a quiet melody to myself as a way to calm my dizzying thoughts.

"I didn't know you sang." Sherlock mumbles, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"I'll stop if it's keeping you up." I say, slightly embarrassed.

"No, no I like it." He says, "What is it?"

"Moon River. I learned it when I was a kid."

"It's lovely," He mumbles, clearly allowing sleep to over take him, "Please, go on. If you don't mind, darling."  
I sigh and situate myself so that Sherlock can rest his head on my chest. Very quietly I start my lullaby, keeping time by tangling my fingers in Sherlock's curls:

"_Moon River wider than a mile _

_I'm crossing you in style someday _

_Oh dream maker, you heartbreaker _

_Wherever you're going I'm going your way…"_

I close my eyes and let all the events of the day wash over me: The lunch outing that turned into a case meeting, Moriarty's text, Sherlock and I going all the way, Mycroft and now my mother. God, it's I wonder that I haven't gone insane!

"_Two drifters off to see the world _

_There's such a lot of world to see…"_

Sherlock is fast asleep; his head nuzzled under my chin. I open my eyes halfway just for a moment to get a look at the peaceful expression on his face: Ah! That's why I haven't lost it. It's because I've got him. Gently, I place a kiss on the top of his head and close my eyes again.

"_We're after the same rainbow's end _

_Waiting 'round the bend _

_My huckleberry friend, Moon River and me."_

_**Hello again! Kind of a long one this time but I hope you all enjoy it. Once again the responses have been so helpful and very much appreciated. (Did ya like my little Benedict joke there in this chapter? It was cheesy, I know but I couldn't resist hehe). **_

_**Anyway, I must warn you all. I have very much enjoyed the fact that so many of you enjoy the fluff, be prepared for some angst and a bit of…lets just say the story will take some turns and it might make you guys nervous. **_

_**Hope to update soon. Once again I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon. I also do not own Henry Mancini's Moon River.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	12. Chapter 12: He's Not a Freak

_Chapter 12: He's Not a Freak_

Pink.

If there were one word to describe the bridesmaid dress Hattie has picked out for me to wear, it would be pink.

Don't get me wrong; it's a wonderfully beautiful gown. It's a form-fitting, strapless, chiffon gown with a flowing skirt that goes all the way down to my ankles. The color is not an obnoxious pink, but more like a light, rosy pink.

It's just so out of the box for me, but if it makes her happy I'll wear it.

"Well what do you think?" I say stepping out from behind the dressing room curtain to show my eagerly awaiting best friend.

"Oh my God it's perfect!" Hattie squeals with excitement, jumping out of her seat. "Come on, come on, do a turn for me."

Feeling like I'm in a beauty pageant, I slowly spin around, picking up the skirt so that I don't step it with my white heels. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors and have to do a double take. Is it really I, the pretty girl in the fancy gown? I feel my cheeks turn a soft red and I quickly turn away.

'_No need to get all self-centered now, Fee.' _I tell myself.

"Hattie, the dress is beautiful." I say, running my fingers across the beaded neckline.

"And you look beautiful in it," my best friend says with a smirk, "I told you that the pink chiffon was a good choice."

I laugh and look over every angle of my reflection in the surrounding mirrors; God, I don't even recognize myself. It's not very often I get to dress up like this. It's a nice change from my normal jeans and sweaters.

'_Okay, maybe you can feel a bit self-centered.'_

"How's the fit?" The bridal consultant whose been helping me get into the dress asks as she stands beside me, "You feel comfortable?"

"It's perfect." I reply, selfishly checking out my backside, "Honestly, Hattie, you got all the measurements perfectly."

"Well, I'd be a horrible friend if I didn't know my best friend's measurements by heart." She says with a proud tone to her voice, "And to think you were worried I was going to put you in something hideous and unflattering."

"I never doubted you." I reply, "I just wished you had taken me with you to pick out the dress. I can dress myself, you know."

Hattie gives me a sassy glance; "Fee, if I had let you pick the dress you would have walked down the isle in some dark, non-wedding color like…purple."

"I like purple. It's a good bridesmaid color."

"And I promise you can dress me in purple for _your_ wedding, but right now your wearing pink for _my_ wedding."

"All right, bride-zilla whatever you say," I tease. We both giggle and continue to look over the small details of the gown.

I'm the only bridesmaid in Hattie's bridal party. Yes, a party of one. It works because Robert only has one groomsman and that's how they wanted it. Despite Robert's large family and his immense fortune, he and Hattie have planned to have a small church wedding and when I say small, I mean really small. I think the guest list is just his parents and younger brother-who will be Robert's best man, my mother and me. Yeah, it's that small.

"How do you want my hair?" I ask, combing my fingers through my long dark locks, "You know how crazy it can be."

"A high bun will do." Hattie replies then turns to the consultant, "Maybe we'll add like a flower or something."

"Of course, miss, I'll go see what we have." The giddy young woman says as she disappears to the accessory corner of the shop. As soon as she is out of ear shot, Hattie leans in and whispers in my ear: "So, how was your first night at Baker Street? Was it…welcoming?"

"It was fine." I reply, giving her a confused glance, "You do realize I've spent the night there before right?"

"Yes, but you when you met up with me this morning you looked like…" Hattie pauses for a moment and giggles, "Well," she goes on, "like a…very happy woman...if you get my drift."

I furrow my brow in confusion and look at her. She just smirks right back and I suddenly understand; "Oh God, Hattie." I sigh rolling my eyes, "Really?"

"What? I'm just saying that you looked quite pleased this morning." she says with a laugh, "I'm not implying anything."

"Oh don't give my that, I know you." I say, "I know exactly what you mean by 'Looking like a very happy woman'."

"Well," she goes on, poking me in the side, "Fill me in! Did you and Sherlock…get it on?"

Unamused by her choice of words, I roll my eyes and nod; "If you must know, the answer is yes. Yes we did."

Hattie squeals then quickly covers her mouth with her hands. I just roll my eyes; honestly, what is the big deal?

"Oh my God you did?" she practically screams, "Tell me all about it!"

"Hattie, calm down." I say with a laugh, "It's no big deal."

"Like hell it isn't!" my best friend giddily replies, "This is your first time! It's a huge deal!"

"I'd really appreciate it if you didn't announce that to the whole store." I say between my teeth. Hattie looks around at the few people in the shop and rolls her eyes.

"Oh, nobody is listening to us." She says, taking me by the hand and sitting me beside her on a white cushioned chair, "Besides, this is important."

"Important?"

"Yes! I'm your best friend and this is the kind of thing we should be telling each other the very moment it happens. Why didn't you text me or something?"

"Well, I don't know," I reply, sheepishly, "I guess I just got swept up in the moment. I mean, one minute we are happily cuddling and then, the next thing I know, his brother is there and-"

"His brother walked in on you? Holy crap!"

"No, I didn't mean it like that." I say, feeling my cheeks turn a bright red, "I mean that he was there, at the flat, after we had finished which lead to Sherlock getting all upset and-God, really, Hattie do we have to talk about this now?"

"Here are a few examples of hair accessories, miss." The consultant says as she walks back to us, "Sorry, no flowers just these clips. Do you still want to take a look?"

Oh thank God! This girl has no idea how perfect her timing is!

"Yes! Let's take a look at them." I say, happily standing up and grabbing a couple of hair clips from the baffled consultant, "Hattie, what do you think?" I ask, holding up an emerald clip, "Is green good?" A little annoyed that she won't get to here the details of my night with Sherlock, Hattie stands up and looks at the accessory.

"Yeah, green is good." She says with a smirk. I nudge her shoulder and we both start to giggle. After looking at and trying on all sorts of clips, Hattie and I pay and exit the shop with dress and accessories in hand. The storm has died down from last night and the rain has finally stopped pouring down for a moment. Honestly, London weather either goes from rainy to foggy with no in-between. It's kind of gloomy.

Suddenly, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I quickly dig it out and read over the text that I have just received:

'_When will you be home? –SH'_

I smile at the fact that Sherlock and I even share a "home" together and happily reply: _'Soon. Do you miss me? –ES'_

'_DeMarco is on his way. John is here, but I need you -SH'_

Remembering all about this meeting with an apparent drug dealer and how upsetting this topic is for him, I quickly reply: _'I'll be there in 10. I love you-ES'_

"Everything alright?" Hattie asks, "You look worried."

"Huh? Oh, yeah I'm fine." I quickly say, stuffing the phone back in my pocket, "It's just…"

"Sherlock?" she fills in for me, already knowing what was on my mind.

"Yeah, he's working on this Monroe case and, well…" I pause for a moment to try and collect my thoughts. She obviously doesn't know that Sherlock use to do drugs and trying to explain that he met up with a drug dealer for this case will just freak her out, "He's exhausted," I decide to go with, "Apparently it's all a bit much for him right now."

"A bit much? I would think this case would be easy for him."

"Yes but, well-He's taking this really seriously."

"Well that's good to hear," Hattie says with a bit of a snobby tone, "I think he should be taking this matter very seriously. Poor Bobby is so worried about the whole thing getting leaked out in the press."

"I don't see why," I say, "From the looks of it all, this was all Monroe's doing. It really has nothing to do with Robert's company."

"Fee, the man stole half a million pounds for drugs. I think that qualifies as something to do with Robert's company."

Not wanting to go into full detail about Monroe's poisoning and set-up, I just bite my lip and look down at the pavement. We both suddenly hear a loud car horn form across the street. Looking toward the noise, we see a sleek black car parked a few feet away, with Robert St. Simon waving out of the driver's side window. Hattie giddily waves to him and practically runs toward him. Grudgingly I follow. Time to be third wheel, yet again.

"Hello sweetie," Robert says as he and Hattie kiss.

"Bobby, what are you doing here?" his fiancé asks, "I thought you'd be in the office all day."

"I finished early," he replies with a wide smile, "and I figured 'What the hell! I'll pick up my girl and her bestie from the dress shop, then hopefully spoil her for a bit.' What do you say, dearie?"

Hattie giggles like a schoolgirl and I just roll my eyes. Nice of him to include me for a second there, that certainly is a change.

"Of course," Hattie replies. She then turns to me, "You don't mind if I spend the afternoon with him do you?"

"Hey, what do I care?" I say, putting on my best friendly face, "Do what you want, girl. You don't need my permission." Hattie smiles and quickly runs to get in on the passenger side.

"Climb in back, Elfie." Robert says with a bright, wide smile, "I'll drop you off at your new flat; Hattie told me all about you and Mr. Holmes moving in together. Congrats!"

"Thank you." I say, getting into the back seat of the car. As soon as I buckle myself in, Robert revs the engine and we are off.

It's probably the nicest car I've ever been in: leather interior, chrome lining along the controls. Honestly, sitting here makes me feel poor. The only obscure thing is probably the extra large bottle of Aspirin in the cup holder, but that's for Hattie. She gets these intense migraines and will complain about them for hours on end. Nice of Robert to keep Aspirin on hand at all times.

"How was work?" Hattie asks, setting her hand on Robert's thigh.

"Ah, well it was interesting." He replies with a heavy sigh, "We've started to look for a replacement for Jonathan Monroe."

"Already?" I ask, becoming more interested in the conversation than the obscure details of the car, "I mean, he did just die not too long ago."

"True, but the business world is not a sentimental universe." Robert says to me, "The accountants that have been covering the job for me just can't keep up with it all. Monroe was quiet good at his job."

"It's a shame, really," Hattie adds in, "he seemed like a great guy."

"He was." Robert says with a bit of nostalgia, "Newlywed, worked with numbers better and faster than any other of the accountants, generally a happy guy. I told Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson all that when they stopped by this morning."

"Sherlock and John came to your work?" I ask, curious as to why neither of them told me they were going to Robert's office.

"Oh yeah," Robert goes on, "Mr. Holmes was kind enough to stop by and fill me in on everything he's already discovered. Hard to think that someone would want to poison poor Jonathan."

I nod and look down at my lap. It's odd that Sherlock would tell Robert about all that so early on in his investigation. Sherlock doesn't like to present a work in progress. He always needs to be right and to be absolutely sure of it. "Guessing is a waste of time," he has said, "Why guess when you can easily find out the truth?"

"Poison?" Hattie exclaims, setting a hand on her chest, "Oh God, that's horrible! Who would do such a thing?"

"That's Sherlock Holmes' job," Robert says, taking her hand into his own, "He'll figure it all out, I know it."

"He better," Hattie grumbles, "you are putting a lot of faith in him, Bobby. I think something like this should be given to the professionals."

I lean forward a bit and give Hattie a questioning look; "Don't you have faith in Sherlock?" I ask, "You've seen him work before, you know he can solve this."

"I didn't say that he couldn't." Hattie spits out, getting defensive, "I just think that this matter may be too big for a private detective to handle."

"Oh please," I say, nudging her shoulder, "this is nothing for him."

"But you said yourself that he's exhausted," she says, "Maybe he's working too hard. Whatever happened with that Moriarty guy you were telling me about, huh? Did Sherlock figure that out or is he working on that at the same time as this case?"

I bite my lip and look out the window. I don't want to tell her or Robert that Moriarty is involved in the Monroe case or anything to do with the text he sent Sherlock yesterday morning. It's not my place.

"Mori-who?" Robert asks, joining in on the conversation.

"Moriarty." Hattie explains, "Apparently he's Sherlock's nemesis."

"Ooo that's exciting." Robert says, "Makes him seem like a super hero."

"A crazy super hero maybe." Hattie adds in.

"Excuse me?" I ask, slightly hurt that my best friend just insulted my boyfriend,

"Oh come on, girl, you have to admit that Sherlock's off his rocker." She goes on, "I mean, really. Who creates a job like a 'consulting detective' and plays with body parts for a living? I'm sorry, Fee, but it bothers me. It's just odd."

"Well, he _is_ odd." I snap back, "and I wouldn't want him any other way."

"I know that but you have to admit that..."

"Admit what? That he's crazy? You want me to call him crazy."

"Not directly, no. But you have to admit he's kind of a freak."

"Don't call him that!" I hiss. What is this all of a sudden? Why is she picking on him?

"Geez, I didn't mean to upset you." She says, but I know she doesn't mean it, "I only meant it as a…"

"I don't care. Just don't call him that."

"Fine."

"Good."

"Here we are," Robert says, breaking the tension, "Baker Street. Which one is it, Elfie?"

"This one right here, next to the sandwich shop." I say. The car glides up to the curb and I quickly open the door. "Have a nice afternoon," I quickly say, stepping out, "thanks for the lift Robert." Before I can get a reply from either Hattie or Robert, I slam the door shut and head up to the front door.

Ugh! What was that all about? I knew that Hattie wasn't a huge fan of Sherlock but that doesn't give her the right to pick on him. I'm not a fan of Robert but I know that Hattie loves him so I don't say anything. Can't she show me the same respect?

And then to call him freak! That was the kicker! I can't stand it!

I storm up the stairs and enter the living room in a huff. I hang the garment bag containing my dress and accessories on the coat rack, toss of my coat and plop down onto the couch.

John, who is seated at the desk typing away on his computer, looks up at me with a furrowed brow. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I grumble, "Just-Ugh, it's nothing. I'll tell you later. Where's Sherlock?"

As if on cue, Sherlock rounds the corner with an older, slimmer and much more paler man standing beside him. This mystery man looks like he's been through hell, what with his matted, untamed blonde hair and his twitching, bone-like fingers. He kind of gives me the creeps. This must be DeMarco.

"I'm telling you anyone could get a hold of that stuff," the man says in a thick Cockney accent, "I'll keep an eye out for you, Sherlock, but no guarantees."

"That is all I ask for, Vlad." Sherlock replies, showing him to the door, "Let me know immediately if anything at all comes up."

"You've got it." Vlad says with a nod. His blood shot eyes suddenly spy me on the couch and a wicked grin grows across his face, "Hello, beautiful," he says with a wink. I can feel the vomit coming up my throat and I quickly have to swallow it back down.

Sherlock looks over at me then instantly turns back to DeMarco, giving him a cold, piercing glare that even makes me shiver. But DeMarco isn't affected, "Oh, I see. You've got yourself all domesticated now." He says with a sly smile, "Got clean, bought a flat, have that detective thing going for you and, now, a pretty woman to complete the picture. Good for you Sherlock."

"I believe our meeting is done, DeMarco" Sherlock hisses, "Thank you for your assistance."

"Alright, alright, didn't mean to upset you. Glad I could help you out. See you around, Sherlock. Oh and thanks for the tea, Doctor!" DeMarco gives John a nod and then heads out the door.

As soon as we hear the front door close, Sherlock rubs his face and lets out a huge sigh. He looks so stressed out and exhausted, poor thing. He hates revisiting his past in any way. I can only imagine what's going on in that brain of his right now.

"If it's any consolation, I thought you handled him brilliantly." John says, trying to comfort his best friend, "Honestly, mate, were you ever that strung out?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Sherlock grumbles, "God, it makes me sick."

"Join the club." I add in, "That guy gave me the creeps."

Sherlock looks at me and extends his left hand. Seeing the need for comfort in his eyes, I rise up from the couch and grab his hand, which leads to him pulling me in for an embrace.

Immediately my sour mood is lifted.

I just need him right now and he needs me.

If only Hattie could see this part of him, she would know the real him.

"Are you okay?" I ask, "Be honest."

"I'm fine." He replies with a nod, "Better now that you're here. You have to believe me when I say that I didn't want to have this meeting, but…"

"It was for the case." I say, brushing a couple of his stray curls off of his forehead, "I know. I understand." Sherlock smiles and leans in to place a kiss on my lips, but the buzzing of his cell phone rudely interrupts us. "You better get that." I tease with a smile, "Could be important."

Sherlock chuckles and pulls out the phone. As soon as he looks at the screen, everything changes. His eyes suddenly become stern and cold and the smile on his face has melted away.

"Sherlock?" John asks, noticing the change as well, "What is it?"

Sherlock doesn't reply but I can tell instantly what it is, or rather, I know who it is. I hold out my hand and look my boyfriend dead in the eyes: "Let me see the text."

Grudgingly, he hands me the phone and I read over the message from that god forsaken number:

'_Tell your girl that pink goes good with green. Both go even better on a corpse. You're getting close with Monroe so don't stop now. The game has only just begun-JM'_

**Hello all!**

**So here we go, getting into the darker stuff I've had planed for this story. It will only grow from here so be prepared.**

**Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and comments. Once again, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**

**Much love and many thanks.**


	13. Chapter 13: Putting it Together

_Chapter 13: Putting it Together_

It's quiet.

It's not completely silent in the flat, but just really, really quiet.

I hate it.

I've busied myself in the kitchen, trying to focus on making my flat mates and I something to eat, but the voices in my head keep telling me to not brush this new text aside. How did Moriarty know about the pink dress and the green clip? He has someone watching me, of course. But who: the consultant, one of the other customers? Or was he, himself, there watching me? And what the hell did he mean by _"Both look even better on a corpse"?_

'_Ugh, don't think too much about it, Fee!' _I tell myself,_ 'you've got Sherlock to protect you. You're going to be fine.'_

I had expected Moriarty to send another threat. I mean, he did make it clear that he was playing a game with Sherlock and that I was the target. Since the answers to the Monroe case are so close, why would Moriarty stop now? His not one to just give in so easily. That being said, I realize that the fear I'm feeling is completely natural, but there is an over powering sense of worry that's clouding it all.

It's not for me, but rather for Sherlock. As soon as he had read the text, he immediately went into case-mode, dove into that mind palace of his and caged himself in. "I have to work," was all he had said. John and I couldn't get another word out of him let alone any reassurance that he was all right; the text had scared him just as much as it had scared me. That was about an hour and a half ago and he hasn't spoken since.

Receiving this text after today's meeting with DeMarco, I can only imagine that Sherlock's mind is going haywire; the feeling of fear, anxiety, and guilt-the list could go on. Unlike most people though, he hides his feelings in his work and won't stop until he deems it okay too. Trust me, I am beyond grateful for him protecting me, but I don't want him to work himself to death.

Placing the last third of Penne with Alfredo sauce into a bowl, I pick up the three plates and enter the living room where the boys are being so awfully quiet. At the desk by the window, John is busily typing away on his laptop, most likely updating the blog. Sherlock is sitting in the center of the living room, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by textbooks and encyclopedias. Neither of them speaks, nor looks at each other. Both are consumed in their work.

"Hungry?" I ask, setting a bowl down beside John. I wouldn't dare to serve Sherlock first, not if he's in the mind palace; He's on a different planet right now.

"Ah, cheers." John says, gratefully taking the food and beginning to eat, "You alright?"

"Fine." I reply, graciously setting Sherlock's plate beside the consulting detective, "Well, fine as I can be."

John smiles at me and nods; "You are a brave woman," he says, "Seriously, you are handling this Moriarty thing beautifully."

"Thanks." I reply a bit sheepishly, "I guess, I just know that I'm in good hands." I turn my head to look at Sherlock, who is feverously turning the pages in the three brick sized books he has laid before him. Usually I love to watch him work, but right now, I'm just worried about him. He looks like a mad man, with his curls all a mess and his normally tucked in, white shirt is hanging off his body. Very carefully, I lean in and place a kiss on the top of his head. He doesn't even acknowledge the gesture. He just keeps working.

Accepting my defeat, I sit across from John and start to eat my own food. Well, actually I just kind of poke at it; being threatened by a consulting criminal makes you loose your appetite.

"He keeps mumbling to himself." John says in between large bites of pasta.

"Hmm?" I ask, looking up from my bowl

"Sherlock," he explains, "He's been turning pages and mumbling notes to himself: Nothing to out of the ordinary. I thought you'd want to know since your staring at him like a worried mother."

I blush and give him a half mouth smile. "Sorry, I can't help it." I say.

"He'll be alright, Fee," John assures me, "You forget he does this all the time. Shuts himself down so that he can only focus on the case at hand, that's Sherlock."

"Yeah, I know, but this time it seems different." I say quiet enough so that Sherlock doesn't hear me-not that he's paying attention to the conversation at all, "This time…I just feel like…" I bite my lip and think for a moment on how I want to word this; "John, what if this is what Moriarty wants?" I whisper.

"How do you mean?" he asks, leaning in a bit so that we can speak a bit more privately.

"I mean, what if Moriarty wants Sherlock to get all wrapped up in a case so that he can spring a trap on me? That wouldn't be a surprise, I mean, that's what happened to you at the pool isn't it?"

John sighs heavily at the memory and nods; "Sort of, yeah, but it was partly my fault. I should have been more careful since we knew that the bomber was still at large, but it all happened so quickly. One minute I was being stuffed into a car, then the next, Sherlock and I are on the brink of being killed. He ever tell you about that night?"

"Vaguely," I reply, "He doesn't like to talk about it. To tell you the truth, I think he feels like he let you down."

"Psh, really? Why?"

"Well, I think it's because Moriarty took him by surprise. He didn't think you'd be a target and then you were and…" I stop for a moment and look back at Sherlock. Ah, now I understand his urgency to get back to work.

"Fee?" John asks, noticing the concern in my face, "You okay?"

"John, he thought he was going to loose you," I go on in a low whisper, "and now he thinks he's going to loose me. That's what Moriarty meant in his first texts: 'Hearts are easy to break'. Don't you see? That's how it's different this time; Sherlock is using his heart, not his head."

"John!" Sherlock exclaims, causing both John and I to jump. We both stare at him bug eyed as he jumps up from where's he's been sitting and practically bounds over to the bookshelf. Sherlock then starts to rip books off of the shelves and tossing them over his shoulders. Now, I'm very worried for him; He looks like he's finally lost it.

"You…you looking for something in particular?" John cautiously asks him.

"John, tell me everything you know about Salicylism." Sherlock demands, not even looking over shoulder, "Quick as you can, there's no time to spare!"

"Um, Salicylism?" John asks

"Yes! Salicylism! You are a doctor aren't you?" Sherlock spits out, tossing another book aside, "Information, now: symptoms, diagnosis, treatment, everything! That's the cause of death."

"Whose cause of death?" John asks,

"Monroe!" Sherlock exclaims, finally facing us and waving his hands about like a mad man, "Jonathan Monroe had a high amount of salicylic acid in his system at the time of his death. DeMarco has identified the powder as crushed Aspirin or, to be called by its scientific name, acetylsalicylic acid."

"Oh well, then let me think." John says, "Okay so when some one is experiencing an Aspirin overdose, they are usually nauseous, dizzy, drowsy-the list could go on."

"Yes, but is there anything that could kill a person? Any specific symptom that could be deadly?" Sherlock asks, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"No, it would only be deadly if taken in immense doses." John explains,

"It must have been given to Monroe in some unnoticeable form, slowly killing him." Sherlock says, half to himself, "The more he took, the faster he grew ill. Now, I just need to think. I just need to think." His voice trails off into a mumble as he paces back and forth in front of the mess of books in the center of the room.

"Aspirin." I wonder aloud, "That's odd, don't you think? I mean, if Moriarty is the one that killed Monroe, don't you think he'd be a bit cleverer, or at least use something that's not as common as Aspirin? I mean anyone could get a hold of Aspirin. Robert even has a huge bottle in his car."

Suddenly, Sherlock freezes mid-step and turns on his heels to face me directly: "Say that again." He says in a voice deeper than his natural tone.

"I said that I think Moriarty would be a bit more…"

"No, no, no the last bit. The bit about Robert."

"Oh, he has a huge bottle of Aspirin in his car. Hattie gets these crazy migraines and complains about them non stop so…"

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaims, clapping his hands together in excitement, "Oh, ho, ho my darling, you truly are a gem." To my surprise, Sherlock grabs my face and kisses me square on the lips. It takes me a moment to return the sudden gesture; what is going on with him now?

"Now, tell me how you're feeling?" he asks me, setting his hands on my shoulders. His brow is furrowed in deep thought and his eyes are course and serious. It's sort of creepy.

"I feel fine." I reply, "Sherlock, honey, are you-"

"Did Robert or Hattie offer you anything to drink or eat?" He interrupts.

"No."

"Are you feeling any of the things John was listing off as symptoms?"

"No."

"Are you absolutely sure? Because Moriarty has made it clear that he means to bring harm to you and in ways similar to that of Monroe's death so I need to know if-"

"Sherlock, I think I would know if I was feeling sick." I say, very confused by his line of questions, "Any way, what are you implying? You don't think Robert had anything to do with Monroe's death, do you?"

Sherlock relaxes his face and slowly stands straight up; "It is a possible solution." He says, returning to his spot on the floor. My jaw drops and John and I share a look of utter confusion. Where on Earth did Sherlock get that idea?

"You're not serious?" I ask, hoping that he was joking. What am I thinking? This is Sherlock! He'd never joke on a case.

"On the contrary, I'm very serious." Sherlock replies, plopping back down to his sitting position on the floor, "Mr. St. Simon is a prime suspect in this murder and quiet possibly an accomplice of Moriarty's."

"For God's sake, he was the one that put you on the case," John adds in, "What makes you think that he killed Monroe?"  
"As I have just stated it was an accidental overdose that killed Monroe, not a person," Sherlock corrects in his self-centered way, "call it the perfect murder; killing someone without ever actually being there at the time of death. It is quiet clever when you think about it."

"But why would Robert want Monroe dead?" I ask, "From what he's said about him, Robert respected Monroe."

"People do stupid things when they're plans are foiled." Sherlock states, picking up a stack of papers.

"Those miscalculations you discovered," he says, "you figured out what they were at St. Simon's company today."

"Of course I did," Sherlock boasts, "Wasn't that hard, really. Once I had brought the issue up with him, Robert had panicked; not enough to blow his cover, but just enough for me to notice it."

"Panicked?"  
"Yes, John, he panicked. I asked him about the missing transactions from the previous quarter and he immediately tensed up: Took in a sharp breath, which indicates a sense of shock, he didn't expect me to know about those transactions. When I inquired further, I noticed his left hand kept flexing then relaxing; nervous habit, no doubt, much like the tremor you yourself have, John. It always acts up when you're under high stress. Now, I've taken the liberty of adding up the numbers of all the missing transactions from when they first start appearing on the finance reports until Monroe's last supposed robbery. Take a look at the sum."

Sherlock hands the papers over to John. I can see that the margins are covered in Sherlock's chicken scratch of numbers and random equations. God, I have a headache just looking at it. I can only imagine reading it over.

John looks them over in confusion but then nods: "One million pounds." He says, "but Monroe only stole half a million."

"Monroe didn't steal any of it." Sherlock corrects, "Robert St. Simon had a hidden account set aside from his regular business accounts. That's where the million pounds went; Not out of St. Simon's pocket, but rather, in it. As one of the top accountants, Jonathan Monroe found out about the secret account and planned on confronting Robert St. Simon about it. That's what that part of the note meant; _'He got me. He still has the money.'_ It was in reference to Robert's hidden accounts_._"

"So Robert finds out that one of his top accountants is on his trail and he has Monroe killed." John says, nodding in understanding.

"Or rather inquired with our favorite consulting criminal on how to handle the matter." Sherlock adds in, "Makes the whole thing appear like Monroe was one stealing the money and then silences him before he can even get the chance to talk."

"And the Aspirin?"

"Simple, John," Sherlock says with a stretch and a yawn, "Crushed acetylsalicylic acid dissolves in water. St. Simon gives it to Monroe, Monroe becomes ill with pneumonia like symptoms, doesn't figure it out until it's too late: Hook, line and sinker."

John shakes his head in disbelief and looks over the papers once again. "But…why?" he asks, "Why would St. Simon take his own money?"

"That's the real mystery at hand here, isn't it?" Sherlock says with sly smile, "We know that Moriarty has some part to play in all this, whether it be the conductor of Monroe's set-up or if he just saw this as an opportunity to get at me. All in all, we need to discover his connection with St. Simon."

"Should I just go in the other room?" I ask, realizing that both of them have forgotten I was sitting here or they just didn't care to fill me in on all this information.

"No, my dear, you are going to play the most crucial role in this drama." Sherlock says, finally facing me. Without getting up, he moves as close to my feet as possible and takes my hands into his. "Elfie, you are the only one of the three of us who can delve into St. Simon's personal life." Sherlock says in a soft, sincere voice, "I need you to find out what Robert was taking all that money for."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I ask, looking into Sherlock's tired eyes, "I'm not exactly buddy-buddy with the guy."

"And yet you are the maid of honor at his wedding," he says, with a smirk, "Talk with Hattie. Arrange some sort of lunch meeting or tell her your coming by to pick up more of your things from the flat. Get her to tell you what she knows."

I am about to nod in agreement but then remember the scuffle I had with my best friend earlier this afternoon; "You want me to call her now?" I ask.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks, slightly annoyed with me.

"No, I just-Well, Hattie and I argued and…"

"Oh, I see, a petty argument between friends." He groans, waving his hand in dismissal, "It's not important."

"It's important to me, Sherlock. I don't like fighting with my best friend." I point out, "And to be fair, the argument was because I was defending you; She called you a freak."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes my hands again; "Darling, a lot of people call me freak and far worse things behind my back, but I don't care and neither should you." He says, "So, for the sake of this case and possibly to save your on life, make that call." Before even getting my official agreement, Sherlock nods and kisses my hands, "Good. Glad that's settled." He says, turning back to his stacks of books, "Now, I have more work to do so if the two of you could busy yourselves else where, that would be lovely."

John chuckles and rises from his chair: "Come on, Fee, I'll help clean the kitchen." He says, taking his empty bowl and mine

"Um, give me a minute." I tell him. He shrugs, picks up Sherlock's untouched food and exits to the kitchen while I continue to just stare at Sherlock, deep and lost once again in his work. I have no idea how he figured all of that out after only having the case for a few days. Yes, he's solved cases in much faster times, but this is completely different. This case has opened a door into a whole other and much bigger issue.

As I watch his head snap from left to right over an array of books, I can see exhaustion is creeping up on Sherlock and taking over; He keeps rubbing his face and shaking his messy mop of curls to stay awake.

That's what he gets for not stopping to eat or regain energy.

Very careful not to distract him, I sink out of my chair and make my way to be behind Sherlock. I slowly rise up onto my knees, wrap my arms around his shoulders and rest my head on his back. He relaxes a bit into my hold and closes the book he has open.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I don't know." He mumbles, rubbing his face again, "Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Sherlock, I think even you have a right to not know everything." I tease. He lets out a deep baritone chuckle and leans back against me.

"I hope I'm not asking too much of you," he sighs, resting his head back so that it lands on my shoulder, "If you and Hattie aren't speaking then I shouldn't have asked you to call her."

"No, your right. It was just a little scuffle, nothing big," I say, "I would tell you if you were out of line for asking me to call her." He smiles and nuzzles his head into my neck. I can feel his breathing become more and more relaxed.

"Sherlock," I whisper, gently stroking his arms, "honey, maybe you should save all this book work for tomorrow. It's been a long day."

He sleepily shakes his head, "No, no, I need to…I need to…" He attempts to formulate a sentence but his yawns interrupting him. His eyes blink open and shut for the hundredth time; he looks like a toddler trying to fight off the obvious need to rest for just a short while. I smile at him and stroke a stray curl out of his eyes. Slowly, he raises his head so that our lips can meet in a soft kiss.

"Come here you," I coax, taking his hands into mine. We both stand and walk over to the couch. I sit down first to situate myself so that Sherlock can lay back and use me as a sort of human pillow. Once we are comfortable, I gently begin to massage his temples; it's his weakness.

"Why do you always distract me?" he groans, finally allowing his eyes to close and his head to fall back against my chest, "There is work to be done and yet, you…you always take me away from all the stress…and the hard work…and…work…" I can hear the tiredness seeping into his usually strong voice, making his vast vocabulary degrade to just a basic level.

"I don't mean to distract you." I reply, with a smirk, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No." he mumbles, "Please…Don't stop...Don't ever stop."

I laugh and run my fingers through his curls. Very slowly, Sherlock turns and wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles his head under my chin. I gladly wrap him up in a comforting embrace and gently stroke his back until he is fast asleep. It makes me think; if people at the Yard knew that Sherlock enjoyed cuddling with me, what would they say? They probably wouldn't believe it.

Sherlock has a soft side?

No! Never!

"I love you." He lets out in a soft whisper.

"I love you too," I reply, but he doesn't hear me; He is already deep asleep. I look down at that peaceful face of his and I can't help by feel so madly in love with this man. Quietly, I very carefully and gently slip out of his loving hold and get up from the couch. "Work to be done," I whisper, folding one of Sherlock's arms over his abdomen. I let his other arm just hang off the side of the couch as I place a soft kiss on his forehead.

As I start to clean up the mess of books and papers Sherlock has strewn about the living room, John reenters with a cup of tea in his hand.

"Oh it's okay, I didn't want one." I tease,

"Hey, I thought you were going to take a nap with him," John says, nudging his head toward the sleeping detective, "How do you do it, by the way?"

"Do what?"

"Get him to rest. I'm his bloody doctor and he completely ignores me when I tell him that he needs to sleep and take care of himself."

"Well, maybe I just have a certain touch." I say with a wink, "I can get him to rest, but I have yet to get him to clean up after himself."

John chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief: "It never ceases to amaze me."

"What?"

"The affect you have on him."

"I hope that's a complement, John."

"It is."

We both laugh and continue to clean up the books. Just then, Mrs. Hudson comes rushing up the stairs and knocks on our door.

"Yoo hoo," she says, "I don't mean to interrupt. Oh and Sherlock's asleep, how rude of me."

"No, it's fine." I say, "We were just cleaning things up and he's out like a light. It would take an explosion to wake him up. What can we do for you, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, there's someone here to see you." She says, pointing over her shoulder.

"Oh, no clients today, Mrs. Hudson," John says, "This case is pretty pressing and taking up all of our time."

"I didn't mean it was for you and Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson kindly corrects him, "They're here to see you, Elfie." I give her a confused look. No one except for Hattie knows that I live here now and she has no reason to come and see me right now. Who else could it be?

Suddenly, there is loud stomping of heels against the wooden stairs; a stomping I know, far too well. I feel the color drain from my face and a knot begin to tighten itself in my stomach as the sound ceases at the doorway.

"Goodness gracious, I didn't know the door was up here!" that loud, commanding voice says to Mrs. Hudson, "I would've showed myself up, miss." The speaker wipes off her black sunglasses and turns to look directly at me: "Aren't you going to say hello?"

My heart skips and uncomfortable beat and I've lost the ability to speak.

"I'm sorry," John says, taking control, " but you are whom?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing, sir." She snaps at him, then turns back to me, "Is this who I think it is?"

"No, no, it's not." I say, stepping forward and finally finding my voice. I set a reassuring hand on John's shoulder and take in a deep breath:

"This is Doctor John Watson. John, this is Loraine Stegerson…My mother."

_**Okay so this was suppose to go up a bit earlier, but a certain dragon distracted me…but that's not important right now. I hope you all weren't too confused with the explanation of Monroe's death. I'm not done with the case so hopefully your questions will be answered along the line. And for those who caught on to Robert's sketchiness, bravo...but that is not all ***__**mwhahaha**__***  
Of course her mom will be a big part in upcoming chapters (fight with Sherlock, maybe?) There will be more to do with Hattie as well so stay tuned. That's the right phrase right? ;)**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks!**_


	14. Chapter 14: Mother Knows Best

_Chapter 14: Mother Knows Best_

"A doctor? Well, you have certainly improved the company you keep, Elfie. I was afraid you had made friend's with the more…awkward type," my mother says, holding her hand out to John and dawning that award-winning smile she uses to impress clients, "Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

"An-and you, Mrs. Stegerson," John cautiously replies, shaking her hand, "Please, call me John."  
"Well, in that case, Doctor John, do call me Loraine or Lori. Anything but Mrs. Stegerson: makes me feel incredibly old and married, which I am neither." My mother says with a smirk. John awkwardly chuckles and takes his hand back rather quickly.

Good Lord, did she just flirt with John?

"Well, I'm just going to head back downstairs." Mrs. Hudson says as she already begins heading toward the stairs.

"Thanks for showing me up, miss," My mother says, pulling out a pound note from her black leather purse, "Do take this as a tip."

"Mom," I sigh, rubbing my temples, "She's not a maid, she's the land lord."

"Oh, my apologizes!" she says with a laugh, "I had no idea." Mrs. Hudson looks at me with a concerned face and I just shake my head. 'Sorry.' I mouth to her and she gives me a motherly nod in response before dashing back to her flat. Seriously, this woman is too good to me.

"So, um, Loraine," John says, "may I take your coat or perhaps make you a cup of tea?"

"Goodness, so this is the legendary British hospitality," she replies, practically tossing John her purse, "Do you want me to offer you a tip as well?"

"Mom." I scold, "Please, behave."

"What? I'm only just being friendly," she says, stepping fully into the flat, "My goodness, this is quite the place, Elfie. Very put together, very home-y. You always did have the prime quality of organization."

"Actually, the flat is mine and Sherlock's." John says, "Elfie just…"

"Oh! And who is this?" She exclaims, pointing to Sherlock, still deep asleep on the couch. Seriously, this man could sleep through anything.

"Mom, please keep you voice down." I whisper, going to the couch and setting a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "He's asleep."

"I can see that, Elfie Marie. All I asked is who he was? Pale and gawky looking thing, isn't he." She then turns back to John, "A patient of yours? Do you even do house calls?"

"Um, yes I do, on occasion," John replies, scratching his head, "But he's not a patient. This is Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Odd name-Oh, wait, now I remember!" She then looks at me with a smile, "This is your man, isn't it?" she asks.

"Yes," I say with a roll of my eyes, "and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't wake him. He's been working really hard on a case and…"

"This must be his place then," she says, walking around the living room and still not lowering her voice, "what with all the detective-y stuff laying around. Very nice." She walks over to the skull on the mantle piece-a favorite decoration of mine-and sneers at it. Obviously she disagrees with me. "You and he must have been living here together, John." She goes on, facing the befuddled doctor once again,

"Yes, I moved in about 18 months ago." He replies, "I had just left the army and, well, I was lucky to find Sherlock."

"Goodness, I hope my daughter isn't disrupting anything between you two." My mother coyly remarks, "Nothing is more uncomfortable then dealing with a third wheel."

"Beg pardon?" John asks, furrowing his brow.

"Okay, can I see you in private, please." I hiss, pulling my mother into the kitchen. This conversation is going to get heated and the last thing I want is to wake Sherlock. Actually, the last thing I want is my mother to be here! "What are you doing here?" I say once we are out of earshot.

"I told you that I was flying in today." She replies, looking around and observing, "Remember our conversation on the phone last night? Honestly, I don't know why you are so surprised. Ooo, this is a lovely place. Look at this dainty kitchen: So British."

"No, mom, of course I remembered that you were flying in," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration, "but this is…I mean, what are you doing _here _at Baker Street? I thought you were going to the apartment."

"Yes, to see you but you weren't there, obviously," she replies, examining the contents of the over-head cabinets, "I get to the door, Hattie answered, invited me in for some coffee and chit-chat-Oh! I had a lovely conversation with that fiancé of hers, Robert. He really is quiet the catch. You should find someone like him, you know, someone who will take care of you."

"I have a boyfriend, mom." I coldly remind her

"Oh I know that. He's actually quiet handsome, that Sherly of yours."

"Sherlock."

"Same thing. Oh, sweetheart, do you really need to keep science equipment in the kitchen? People cook in here."

"Mom, please!" I say, quickly grabbing the glass beaker from her hands, "Can you not go through the guys' stuff? You are a guest."

"So these belong to that doctor fellow?" she asks

"No, they're Sherlock's." I reply, "He conducts experiments between cases."

"Smart and likes to keep busy, dooly noted." She says under her breath. I roll my eyes in annoyance; seriously, she's taking mental notes on my life? Ugh, there are no bounds to this woman's judging.

"You were saying about going to the apartment…" I try to change the subject.

"Ah, yes! So there I am talking with Hattie when I suddenly realize that you are nowhere to be seen or heard." My mother goes on, taking a seat on one of the stools.

"How long did it take you to realize that?" I mumble, leaning in the archway.

"Don't get smart with me, young lady." She scolds, "And for your information I noticed right away; Hattie and I just got caught up in conversation."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms across my chest; She's lying. She just had to say something because I had caught her not caring about me.

"Anyways," she goes on, "I asked where you were and Hattie told me all about how your boyfriend had whisked you away to live with him. Moving kind of fast, don't you think, sweetie?"

"Well, no," I reply, "Sherlock and I have been together for a year."

"A year?" she says, taken back with surprise, "Why wasn't I aware of this? So this is a serious relationship then?"

"You were aware, or at least would be if you had you paid attention to me when I tell you about my life." I grumble, "and yes, it is serious."

"Oh, Elfie Marie! How exciting for you!" she says, quickly getting up and wrapping her arms around me in an awkward hug, "Finally, you've found some happiness in your life."

"I've always been happy, Mom," I say, pulling away from her, "and Sherlock just adds to it."

"Okay, okay, fine." She says, brushing the subject aside, "What does he even do again, this man of yours? The pay must be good, not just anyone can own a place like this."

"He's a consulting detective and the pay is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? Oh, sweetheart, have I taught you nothing?"

'_That's a loaded question.'_ I say to myself

"You can't just settle down with some guy you've got a crush on." She goes on, "You have to make sure he will provide a stable life for the both of you. A man must take care of his woman."

"Mom, I can assure you, Sherlock does take good care of me." I say, "and it's not a crush. I love him."

"If you love him, why aren't you considering kids?"

My heart jumps up to my throat and my cheeks turn a bright red. "Wh-what?" I studded.

"Children, sweetheart," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "In my day, when a man and a woman have been together for as long as you and this Sherlock have, they consider making it official and creating a family."

"I…I…I don't know about all that right now."

"You don't want to have a family with this man?"

"I didn't say that."

"Because if you don't want to have a family and a life with him, then are you really in love?"

Before I can tell her that she has no idea what she's talking about, that familiar baritone voice and a comforting arm around my waist saves me like it always does:

"Ms. Stegerson, I don't believe we met properly."

I turn around to see Sherlock standing beside me, looking dapper as ever. His white button up is tucked into his slick black trousers with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair is no longer a messy mop, but rather controlled curls. One would never guess that he was asleep on the couch just mere seconds ago.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says, extending his free hand to my startled mother, "and allow me to officially welcome you to Baker Street."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Holmes." My mother replies, shaking his hand, "It's nice to finally meet the man who stole my daughter's heart."

"I can assure you, Ms. Stegerson, that I stole nothing. She gave me her heart willingly." He says, gently pulling me in closer to him. I only just stare at him in amazement. How can he be so calm and collected right now?

"How very poetic," my mother says with a judgmental sting to her voice, "and please, do call me Loraine."

"I will…Loraine." He says with a half mouth smile.

I know that face.

That's the face he gets when he's observing.

Oh, good God.

"Tell me, Loraine, was it before or after Elfie moved out when you underwent reconstructive surgery?"

Yes, here we go.

"Excuse me?" my mother asks, placing a hand on her chest in surprise, "I don't think I know-"

"The scared tissue around your right ear indicates that you had a face lift not too long ago." Sherlock begins, "Perhaps a touch up, since the scar is pretty worn down-I'd say about 10 years or so-which says that you had the initial surgery when your daughter had moved out for college. Makes sense really, your daughter that you have successfully raised all on your own has left the nest so now there is some extra cash laying about, why not spend it on yourself?"

My mother looks at me, absolutely spellbound; "You told him about my surgery." She says, "You must have."

"Not at all," I reply, with a small smile, "I know how private you wanted to keep it."

"Then how could he have-"

"I observe, Loraine." Sherlock says with that self-centered tone of his, "That is what I do for a living and I make enough to establish a stable life for myself as well as the woman I care most deeply for." I blush as he moves his arm from my waist and intertwines his hand into my own, giving it a comforting squeeze. Sheepishly, I look down at my feet; He was listening in on the conversation we were having. Of course he was, he's Sherlock.

"You observe?" My mother inquires, still not impressed, "What exactly do you observe?"

"Everything." He says rather matter of factly, "From the roots of your touched up auburn hair to the scuff marks on your brand new Channel heels. I can tell you what profession you are in, the correct position you hold…but I don't need to observe you to tell all of that."

"Don't you?" my mother challenges

"No, Elfie has told me all about the real-estate business you have built up out of a small office in the apartment you and she shared the first four years of her life. No, what I can observe off of you is that you came to Baker Street in search of your daughter as well as some form of ammunition."

"Ammunition?" she asks

"Yes, for you to legitimize your argument of why Elfie should return to America with you."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't dream of that." She lies, but her words fall on deaf ears; Sherlock has just begun one of his infamous monologues. She has no idea what she's in for:

"Your plan was to ask Elfie to return to California with you after Hattie's wedding next month, or rather you were going to convince her to leave with you before hand and then ask her after. That is why you booked an earlier flight to London from Los Angeles-No, hang on, New York; you had a real-estate conference there."

"How could you have possibly-"

"Your shoes. That style doesn't make its west coast debut until Christmas, but you were lucky enough to snag a pair while shopping on 5th Avenue. You have a wedding to attend, might as well buy a new pair of shoes, and some pricey ones too. It'll be a nice little trinket to show off to your daughter and the bride. Hattie will fawn over them like you want, but Elfie simply won't care. It's just her nature. Now, your plan:

You obviously new of this meeting in New York and thought to yourself, 'why spend more money than necessary? I'll book a flight from Los Angeles to JFK for the meeting, but instead of flying back to LAX, I'll fly to London.' That's when the wheels started turning. You always wanted Elfie to inherit the business you had worked so hard to achieve, but she never seemed to see why. You needed to convince her that returning to America and learning the family trade was the absolute best thing for her to do. She needed to take over so that you could retire happily and not have a care in the world about your company falling into the wrong hands.

But how were you going to do it? How were you going to convince your daughter-who found more joy in learning about ancient kings and queens then the family business- to come back with you? Simple: You were going to make her see that the life she has developed for herself is not a happy one. You were going to find some small crack in her routine, some misguided judgment she has made, and use that to make her realize the life she was living wasn't the correct one. Distraught, Elfie would return to California with you and take over the business.

However, unfortunately, you've hit a snag. Elfie is living a very successful life here in London; She works at a highly regarded museum, specializing in ancient cultures, which is what she received her degree in, has maintained a close knitted friendship with her former flat mate as well as developed new acquaintances, and, above all, she's found someone who will care for her with all of his heart and will continue to do so until his dying day. Now, I must ask you because it is my way, did I get any of it wrong?"

My mother just stares at Sherlock, completely in shock and unable to fathom what has just happened. Her hands tightly grip the strap of her purse in frustration as she tries to think of something to say to this man; this man, who has just out witted her and blown her out of the water.

I feel a sense of pride and enjoyment seeing this; yes she's my mother, but it's nice to see her get a taste of her own medicine. I squeeze Sherlock's hand to show him my appreciation and he kindly returns the gesture.

"You are something else, Sherlock Holmes." My mother finally says, looking at him and then at me, "Truly something else."

Sherlock nods and wraps an arm around my shoulders; "Your daughter is very important to me." He says in a much softer tone then he's been using, "I do intend on spending the rest of my life with her. My only hope is that you reconsider the thought of taking her away from here."

"My daughter is important to me as well," my mother coldly replies, "and she can make her own life choices. My only hope is that she soon realizes that the man she has chosen to be in love with is an inconsiderate ass."

"Mom!" I exclaim while taking a step forward to argue with her, but Sherlock gently holds me back. I look up at him for a reason, but he just shakes his head; he's unaffected by the insult, so I shouldn't be.

"Really, Elfie Marie, you have been with some interesting characters but this man! Oh, ho, ho, this man takes the cake!" She then pushes past us, storming toward the exit of the flat. I quickly follow.

"Mom, wait," I say, from the top of the stairs

"I need to go check in at the hotel, I'll call you when I'm settled." She calls back as she descends the stairs, "Ta!"

I watch her go, not feeling an ounce of regret or pity. She had it coming and I have a very strong feeling this is not the last debacle her and Sherlock will get into. Believe me, I'm not leaving him no matter how much she may hate him. I shake my head and head back inside the flat.

Sherlock is already lying back down on the couch, stretched out like a cat. Feeling the need to be so close to him, I take a seat at the edge by his feet.

"You weren't asleep when she came in, were you?" I ask, removing my shoes.

"She woke me up." he replies, shutting his eyes, "She is quiet loud."

"Yeah, trying living with her for 18 years," I say, lying down beside him, "Ugh, the stories I could tell you about her hour long lectures when I was teen." Sherlock chuckles and wraps his arms around me in a comforting embrace. "Thank you," I say, resting my head on his chest.

"For?" he replies with a sigh: he's falling back asleep then. That monologue must have worn him out.

"That-Whatever that was." I reply, "For you being you, I guess."

"Then you're quiet welcome." He mumbles, "Always happy to oblige." I chuckle to myself and nuzzle as close to him as I can. I close my eyes and just listen to the sound of Sherlock's breathing and rhythmic heartbeat.

"'Inconsiderable ass'," he says, stroking my hair, "that is a new one."

"Shut up, Sherlock," I mumble, hiding my face in his shirt, "Go back to sleep." I feel him place a soft kiss on the top of my head and his hold around me tighten a little.

"Of course," he whispers into my hair, "my Elfie Marie."

**Boom! Two chapters in one week! It's a miracle….sort of…not really…okay, maybe a bit.**

**Hope you guys enjoyed it and as always thank you for the follows, favorites and comments. It truly means a lot to me.**

**Once again, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**

**Much love and many thanks.**


	15. Chapter 15: Out Tonight

_**Hello all!**_

_**I know I usually do this at the end of the chapter but I'm going to do it now because this is a long one...and I don't want to spoil the cliffhanger. (Cliffhanger? Whaaa?)**_

_**As always thank you for all the reviews and follows and favorites. It means so much and truly, I never expected to receive such a wonderful response. **_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_

_Chapter 15: Out Tonight_

"You should wear the light blue one."  
"Why?"

"Because you rarely ever do and I think it looks nice on you."

"Dull."

"Dull that I think you look nice in that shirt, or looking nice in general?"

"Both. People shouldn't care about others outward appearances. It's a waste of time, just like going out to dinner when we can just stay here and eat."

"God, your impossible sometimes."

"And yet, you're still with me."

"Yeah, cause I'm the only person you will put up with you."

Sherlock chuckles to himself and pulls out the light blue button up from his dresser. I am lying sideways on the bed, propped up by my elbow, in my black cocktail dress, observing him. We're going out to dinner and its kind of a big deal. Besides wanting to keep his personal life private, Sherlock hates going out to dinner; He doesn't see the point in it all. To be honest, he doesn't see the point in dates in general. I'm not saying he isn't romantic-believe me, he can be one hell of a charmer- it's just all so new to him. Not to mention every time we go out Sherlock makes at least one of the other people around us cry because he deduces some private fact about them then announces it to the world:

"_Your husband stepped out to call his mistress, not his boss."_

"_Don't bother ordering her wine. She's a recovering alcoholic; Three months sober by the looks of it."_

"_He used to be a woman."_

"_She doesn't want to marry you so take that ring out of the champagne glass. Besides, she hates gold so she wouldn't even like the ring."_

Yeah, sometimes it's just better for us to have a quite night in.

"What did Hattie say exactly on the phone?" Sherlock asks, adjusting the buttons on his cuffs.

"Well, first she apologized about 20 times for calling you a freak and sending my mother over here without warning me." I explain, "Then she asked if you and I could join her and Robert for dinner at Angelo's. She said it was their treat for you being so helpful with the Monroe case."

"She didn't sound out of the ordinary to you?" he inquires, giving me that detective stare that he gets when he's on the case.

"How do you mean?"

"Did she sound like she was hiding anything?" he presses, "Any hint that she may be keeping something from you?"

"Sherlock," I say, sitting up straight, "I'm pretty sure Hattie doesn't know anything about Robert's secret account. She hardly knows exactly what it is he does for a living, so I highly doubt that she's in on all of this."

"Don't underestimate your friend," he replies, "she is an investigative journalist after all."

"True, but I know her." I counter point; "Hattie is so in love with Robert that she's blinded by it. She'd never think to delve into his work life. If your right about him being involved in Monroe's murder, she'll be heart broken."

"'_Blinded by love'_." Sherlock scoffs as he buttons up his blazer, "What an odd saying. One's emotions can't simply disable their ability to not take notice of their significant other's actions."

"Sure they can," I say with a giggle, "I mean, you do some crazy stuff every day and I let them slide because I'm in love with you."

"If you are referring to my methods to solving cases, I hardly think they are considered as crazy." He says, "Everything I do is for the sake of the case. If my methods bother you, then please make your opinions clear to me. Even though I hold your opinions in very high regard, they will not alter my way."

With a smile, I stand up and go to his side to adjust his collar; "Oh my dear Sherlock Holmes," I contently sigh, "don't ever change." Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion, but then relaxes to return the kiss I place on his lips.

He's so naïve when it comes to love. It's adorable.

After saying our goodnights to John-and Sherlock giving him a fair warning to keep an eye out for anything unusual while we're gone-we head out the door and take the short walk over to Angelo's. The bitter London breeze stings my cheeks, turning them a bright shade of pink. I turn up my collar to block the cold and stand as close to Sherlock as possible, who graciously takes hold of my hand and places a soft kiss on the top of my head.

"We haven't done this in awhile," he says into my hair.

"What do you mean?" I ask

"Don't you remember?" He motions to the night sky with our intertwined hands and I nod.

"Ah, yes," I say with a laugh, "Those walks were you _weren't_ flirting with me."

"As I've told you many times before, darling, I don't flirt." He says, giving me that charming, half-mouth smirk of his.

"No, you were just offering to walk me home in the moonlight because you were being really, really nice." I tease. We both look at each other and laugh.

Before we were dating and when he use to come by my office to ask for my help on cases, Sherlock would always walk me to the tube station after my shift. He claimed it was because I shouldn't be walking so far alone in the dark, but somehow I knew that it was because he had feelings for me. We would take these long walks and clear our heads: he would talk about whatever Lestrade was having him do and I would vent about the troubles of working at a museum. It was sweet and those are memories I won't soon forget.

"Well, go on then." Sherlock says. I look at him with a confused expression to which he just sighs and goes on: "You have a lot on your mind; get your nerves out now before we join your friend."

"Nerves?" I ask

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he says, "I can see it in your eyes. You think that I'm going to use this dinner date as an opportunity to get Robert St. Simon to confess to assisting in the murder of Jonathan Monroe."

"Well, aren't you?" I ask in a quite voice so that the people passing by don't over hear us, "I mean, why else would you agree to go out to dinner? You hate going out on dates."

"That's not entirely true. I have taken you out on dates multiple times."

"Sherlock, going to crime scenes and all nighters at St. Bart's lab do not count as dates."

"Think what you like," he says, giving my hand a light squeeze, "Anyway, to address your first statement, yes I do plan on confronting Robert on my findings this evening, but there is no need to worry. I won't embarrass you and Hattie. My plan is simple:

There is no doubt that Robert will ask me how the investigation is going and I will gladly tell him what I have discovered: That there are half a million pounds still to be accounted for and that there is evidence suggesting that it is put away in a separate, secret account. I will then tell him that Monroe discovered this account and was going to publicize it, until someone found the need to silence him."

"Do you expect Robert to admit to having this account?" I ask, "I mean, he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's not a complete idiot. He won't take the bait so easily."

"No, of course he won't. Not unless he's, as you put it Fee, a complete idiot." Sherlock goes on, "My intention is to get him to _show_ that he has the account."

"Isn't that the same thing?" I ask  
"Not really," Sherlock explains, placing a comforting arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close to whisper in my ear, "If he says that he created the account for whatever reason, then he will have to be taken in to Scotland Yard right away. He will lawyer up in no time and that will be that: Case closed. However, if he simply gives off the slightest, sub-conscious gesture about having the account, then I will have the upper hand."

"How?"

"I will use the information against him; strike a bargain as it were. I can hand over the information to Lestrade who will then arrest Robert for espionage, as well as the murder of Jonathan Monroe. From there, I will use my influence over the police to see what I can do about his sentence in exchange for information about Moriarty's involvement in all of this."

I shudder at the mention of that man's name. Before we had left the flat, I had expressed my fear that Moriarty may have someone watching me. Sherlock had assured me that there is no way Moriarty could get me while I was in his company, but for some reason the unsettling feeling remained in my stomach. I know that Sherlock will protect me; I have no doubt of that. But what if, just what if, Moriarty is a step ahead of him?

No, maybe I'm just paranoid and maybe I'm over thinking it all. Of course, I'm going to be okay; I've got Sherlock, so nothing is going harm me.

Right?

Breaking my train of thought, Sherlock's hold around my shoulder tightens a little; "I promise you, I will get to the bottom of this." He whispers, placing a kiss on my forehead, "I'm going to protect you."

"I know." I reply, "I know you will."

Moments later, we finally reach our destination. Sherlock takes my hand again and I follow him inside the restaurant where the owner, Angelo, greets us.

"Sherlock!" he exclaims, giving Sherlock a hardy hand shake, "What can I do for you my dear friend?"  
"Angelo, allow me to introduce my companion: Elfie Stegerson." Sherlock says, giving me a proud smile. I blush and extend my free hand to the surprised Italian.

"Companion? Well, how about that. What ever happened to that doctor fellow you always hang around with?" Angelo says, taking my hand and placing a kiss on my knuckles, "Pleasure to meet you, miss. Sherlock Holmes is one hell of a guy, you know? You are in great company."

"So people keep telling me." I reply, playfully elbowing Sherlock in the side. Sherlock blushes and takes my hand into his again.

Wait, did I just make Sherlock Holmes' blush?

"Fee!" I hear a voice call out from the corner table. I look over to see Hattie waving franticly for us to come join her and Robert, who is standing in the taking a phone call with his back to the table. Giving Angelo a polite nod, Sherlock and I walk over toward them.

"Here we go," I whisper.

"It'll be fine." Sherlock whispers back "Trust me."

As soon as we reach the table, Hattie jumps up from her chair and nearly tackles me in a hug: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps saying and I just laugh and hug her back.

"It's fine," I reply, "you don't have to keep apologizing."

"Like hell I don't," she says, pulling back a bit to look me in the eye, "I was way out of line; the stress of this wedding and work is getting to me. I shouldn't have called…Well, actually I should be apologizing to you, Sherlock." She turns to my boyfriend and extends an apologetic hand; "I'm sorry I doubted your skills. From what Bobby tells me, you've nearly solved this whole mess and I know that Elfie deeply cares for you. It's not my place to judge you. So, friends?"

"If you'd like," Sherlock replies, shaking her hand, "But you mustn't worry yourself with the effect insults have on me. I'm quite use to them."

"Um, okay." She says, giving me a confused look. I just nod to subconsciously tell her that that was Sherlock's way of accepting her apology. We then take our seats. To my surprise, Sherlock takes my coat and drapes it over a chair that he pulls out for me.

"Thanks," I say, as I take my seat, "that's very out of the ordinary of you."

"What, to dote upon you? Nonsense." He whispers in my ear before placing a quick kiss on my cheek, "Can't I show you affection when we are on a date?" "I don't know, you did just introduce me as your 'companion' at the door," I tease. Sherlock chuckles and leans in give me a kiss on the lips.

"Okay you guys, save that for after dinner." Hattie says,

"Look who's talking," I reply with a smirk,

"Touché." She says and we both giggle. "Wine?" she asks; already filling Robert's and hers glass. I nod and she starts to fill mine as well, "How about you Sherlock? Do you like red wine?"

"On occasion," he replies, taking a seat. With a smile Hattie fills his glass then her and I immediately start a conversation about her upcoming wedding.

Sherlock quietly sits beside me, gingerly sipping his wine, watching everything around him with those hawk-like eyes of his and taking in every single detail. He's trying to act natural, but I can tell that he's only waiting for Robert to get off the phone. He wants to make his move. The case is so close to being closed that it's making him anxious. To be honest, it's making me anxious as well. I really just want this to be solved and over with. Maybe then this Moriarty crap will go away as well.

Finally, Robert puts away his phone and takes his seat beside Hattie; "So sorry about that," he says; his Scottish accent as clear as ever, "Had to make a last minute trade deal with one of our partners."

"Were you successful?" Sherlock asks, his voice, deep and monotone.

"Very much so," Robert replies, "Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock." My boyfriend says, giving Robert a firm handshake, "I think we can afford to drop the professionalism under the circumstance that your fiancé is my girlfriend's best friend, don't you?"

"Right you are, Sherlock," Robert laughs, "Now, how about we order something, yes? Waiter!"

After ordering and-thanks to Angelo's speedy service-receiving our food, Robert finally asks about the case: "I hate to talk about this, but I have to know; how goes the investigation?"

"Solved." Sherlock plainly says, casually stabbing his fork into his risotto and taking a bite.

"Really?" both Robert and Hattie exclaim, dropping their silverware and staring at the calm detective with bug eyes. I quietly continue to eat and not dare to make eye contact with either of them; I know Sherlock is just trying to get Robert to talk, and I don't want to disrupt the plan. I have a god-awful poker face.

"So soon," Hattie says, "You…you really have solved it?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies, "It was simple matter. You were on the right track, Robert, in thinking that Monroe was set up."

"Go on then," Robert says, leaning in close so that the other patrons at the restaurant won't hear him, "What really happened?"

Sherlock smiles proudly and leans back in his chair, acting as if he hasn't' a care in the world. "Jonathan Monroe came across some miscalculations, as did I, in your finance reports." he explains, placing his hands in a prayer position under his chin like he always does, "A total of one million pounds have gone unaccounted for."

"Well, didn't Monroe steal that money?" Hattie asks, hooking her arm in Robert's, "But he paid it back."  
"He paid half a million back," Sherlock continues, "the half a million he was framed for stealing. There was still another half that had gone missing before Monroe had even been considered a felon. The money had disappeared into a separate account; an account that was set up within your company, Robert, but was not recorded in its official records. This account was created for personal reasons. Being one of your top accountants, Monroe discovered the account, realized its illegality and planed to go to the police. Unfortunately for him, the creator of the account found this out and…well, I think we all know what happened there."

Robert's hand gently grabs onto Hattie's as he takes in a sharp breath. I notice out the corner of my eye that his hand that is still resting on the table keeps tensing up then relaxing.

That must be it. That's the subconscious gesture Sherlock wanted to get out of him. I set a hand on Sherlock's thigh, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He isn't finished yet:

"He died of an Aspirin overdose." Sherlock goes on, "Very uncommon, but if your set up to look like a drug addict, any form of overdose will do."

"But who?" Robert asks, sounding very sad, "Who would do such a thing?"

"Only one person I can think of," Sherlock replies. I look at his face in confusion; this wasn't part of the plan he had explained to me? Was he really going to call Robert out on embezzlement, right here? Right now?

"Tell me, Robert, have you ever had any encounter with a James Moriarty?"

Ah, now I see. He wants to confirm Moriarty's involvement first.

"Who?" Robert asks, "I…I've never heard of him."  
"Seriously?" Hattie says, looking at me, "Fee, is for real? Is this the same Moriarty you were telling me about?"

Sherlock quickly gives me a sharp glance and I can feel the lump developing in my throat. I don't think I was suppose to tell Hattie that Moriarty even existed, let alone that he is Sherlock's adversary.

"I…I don't know." I mange to say, "I had no idea that-"

"Are you sure that this Moriarty man set up Monroe? There was no one else." Robert interrupts; his voice is now stern and coarse, giving his normally bright accent a darker tone. Sherlock turns back to look at him and smiles.

"Oh, I am certain of it." He says in a deep whisper, "I am so certain of it that have all the evidence I need to turn the bastard in. All I need is to connect him to you and the case will be settled."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't give you that information." Robert quickly replies.

"So you admit that there is some information to be collected?" Sherlock quips back, leaning forward on his elbows.

"I said no such thing."

"No, but you implied. Tell me, Robert, how do you know Jim Moriarty?"

"I don't know him."

"Oh come on, I know that you do."  
"How?"  
"Who else could help your company successfully hide the embezzlement?"

"How dare you!"  
"What happened to the other half a million, Robert? Spend it on a new lease, saving it for a nice romantic honey moon?"

"That's it, we're done here." Robert suddenly stands up and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. Hattie and exchange looks of utter confusion as she stands up to join her distraught fiancé. "You will be hearing from my lawyers, Mr. Holmes, be sure of that." Robert hisses, taking Hattie by the hand, "To accuse me of embezzlement-You have made one hell of an enemy, Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll add your name to the list." Sherlock says, picking up his glass of wine and nonchalantly leaning back into his chair.

In a flurry, I watch my best friend being tugged along by her fiancé as they exit the restaurant. I'm actually quite worried for her. Who knows what Robert will do now? I don't want to see her get hurt in all of this.

"Well, I would consider that a successful interrogation, wouldn't you?" Sherlock asks, taking a gulp of his wine.

"What the hell just happened?" I ask, looking at him truly baffled, "I thought you weren't going to accuse him of Monroe's murder."

"I didn't. I accused him of embezzlement and I must say that he played his part beautifully."

"So you meant to get him all riled up?"

Sherlock nods and places his empty glass back on the table. He then rises and prepares to leave, "To be fair, I didn't expect him to react so dramatically," he says, pulling on his coat, "But that's no matter. Now we know that there is no denying his involvement in this scheme. I'll make a trip to Scotland Yard tomorrow morning to deliver the good news to Lestrade. Shall we, darling?" Sherlock gives me a soft smile and extends his hand to me. I gladly take it and grab my coat.

Well that was the most exciting dinner date I've ever been on.

"Angelo! I must apologize for the ruckus we may have made." Sherlock says as we exit, "You can forward the bill to me. I will handle it."

"On the house," Angelo calls back, "consider it a gift for you and your girl for putting up with that snob." Sherlock gives him a gracious nod then we head out the door and back to our flat.

My hand is tightly intertwined with his.

Our pace is a bit slower then when we first walked over.

We don't speak, but what is there really to say?

Sherlock succeeded in his goal, which means this Monroe business will soon be behind us. All that's left really is to track down Moriarty, but I fear that will be a never-ending quest for Sherlock. Moriarty will always be there with a new challenge and I have to accept that…however frightening it may be.

"Sherlock," I say as we approach the front door, "I'm sorry I told Hattie about Moriarty."

"Don't be," he says, fumbling with the lock, "you had every right to tell her that he was my-oh, I don't know-arch-enemy. It concerns you so it's only natural you…Damn, why won't this blasted key go in?"

"Maybe because you keep missing the lock." I point out. Sherlock looks at me in confusion then back at the lock. He stares it like it's a completely foreign object to him. Slowly, he blinks a few times then puts the key inside and turns it. The lock click and he opens the door. "Perhaps you had a bit too much to drink?" I tease, as we step inside, but Sherlock doesn't reply. He just stands there at the foot of the steps, slightly swaying in place and staring intently at the ground.

"Sherlock?" I ask, now feeling concerned, "You okay, love?" I place a hand on his shoulder and he suddenly snaps out of his trace.

"Huh? Oh, yes, I'm fine." He says, placing the heel of his palm to his forehead, "I'm just, um, tired I think. Got a bit of headache all of a sudden, that's all."

"Remind me to never let you drink when you're the case," I say, heading up the stairs, "Mind palaces and alcohol do not mix, apparently."

"I had one glass," he says, following me, "and you know that I…I…I…" Suddenly, Sherlock latches onto the banister to keep himself from falling over. I quickly grab him by the waist to steady him. "I'm fine." He spits out, trying to regain his balance, "I just need to…rest…God." He grips is abdomen in pain and hunches over slightly.

"Whoa, okay, okay just take it easy," I coax, slowly getting him to take a seat on the stairs, "Just lean back against me, okay. Catch your breath. That's it." I sit sideways with my back against the wall and allow Sherlock curl up into a ball and rest all of his weight against me. Between his deep groans of pain, I can tell that his breathing is heavy and unnatural. "What's going on?" I whisper, placing a hand on his forehead, "Are you coming down with something?" His skin is warm to the touch: almost too warm. Sherlock locks eyes with me and I can see the feverish glaze begin to over take them. Worry begins to fill my brain; He never gets sick. Never. Something is terribly wrong here.

"…Stupid…stupid…" he mutters as his eyes start to roll around, trying to focus on something, "I should've…stupid…"

"Sherlock?" I ask, quickly cupping his face in my hands, "Honey, can you hear me?"

"The glass…" he mumbles, "the bottom of the…god…I…I…" Suddenly, his eyes roll back into his head and he passes out. Panicking, I start to shake him and call out his name in hopes that he'll wake back up. Oh God, what's happened to him? What was he saying? What glass?

"Sherlock, love, can you hear me?" I cry, "Sherlock?" Suddenly my senses return to me and I call up the stairs as loud as I can:

"John! John I need you! Please, it's Sherlock! John!"


	16. Chapter 16: Pick Up the Pieces

_Chapter 16: Pick Up the Pieces_

Instantly, John comes bursting out the flat. He sees the limp Sherlock Holmes in arms and immediately goes into full on doctor mode.

"He…he just passed out," I say, trying (but failing) to keep my voice from cracking, "

"Help me get him inside," John demands, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's middle, "Keep him steady now, Fee." I nod and help the doctor carry the unconscious detective up the stairs and into the flat. We gently lay him down on the couch with his head resting a tad upright on the arm of the couch. I immediately back away so that John can get to work. Everything passes by in a blur. My mind is buzzing with so many different emotions right now that it's hard to focus on what is going on.

Confusion: What happened just now? Sherlock couldn't have just become ill like that all out of the blue.

Panic: How could this have happened? He was fine at dinner and on the walk home. What did I miss?

Worry: Is his going to be okay? I've never seen someone go so pale so suddenly. And to pass out like that…

Fear: Will he wake up?

"Elfie, did you hear me?" John says, causing me to snap out of my thoughts, "I need you to grab a bin and my med-kit. It's in the kitchen."

"Yeah, sure, okay." I say, trying my best to keep it together. I quickly nod and run into the kitchen to grab the requested items. When I return to the living room, John has striped Sherlock down to just his shirt and trousers. "He's burning up." he explains, grabbing his med-kit from me, "Tell me what happened."

"I…I don't really even know." I stutter, "One second he's fine and then the next he couldn't keep his balance and-God, John, is he going to be okay?"

John sighs heavily and looks back at Sherlock. "We need to wake him up, then I'll go from there," he says. He then takes notice of the serious worry on my face and places a comforting hand on my shoulder; "He'll be fine, I promise you." He says with a brotherly smile, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." I take in a shaky breath and nod; He's right. I need to just let him do his job and Sherlock will be better in no time…won't he?

"John?"

Suddenly-to both John's relief, and mine-we turn around to see Sherlock moaning and groaning as he attempts to stand up.

"Whoa, Sherlock" John says, going to his friend's side, "take it easy. You passed out on the stairs and you've got a fever. I need you to relax." Too ill to argue, Sherlock allows John to gently push him back to lie down.

"Fee?" Sherlock grumbles, reaching out a hand and waving it about, "Where? John, where is she?"

"I'm right here." I say, quickly taking his hand, "Right next to you." Slowly, Sherlock turns his head to look at me with foggy eyes and smiles weakly. He's as white as a ghost and he looks so helpless. Oh, my dear Sherlock, what happened to you?

"Fee," he breathes out, "I've…I've…" His eyes roll back again as he scrunches up his face in pain, "Damn it!" he cries out, curling in on himself, "John!"

"Fee, the bin." John demands, quickly turning the ill detective onto his side, "Now!" I quickly place the bin beside the couch just in time to catch Sherlock's sick. My heart aches at the sight of the love of my life being so helpless and weak. I can't stand it. In my best attempt to comfort him, I gently rub his back while he continues to heave into the bin. It's taking all of my will power to not run away and cry in a corner. He needs me right now and I won't leave him.

When he has finished, Sherlock tosses his head back against the pillows of the couch and passes out again. The worried doctor places a hand on his sick best friend's forehead and takes a quick look into the bin.

"Damn." He says under his breath, "This isn't letting up anytime soon."

"How do you mean?" I ask, allowing my tears to form fully in my eyes, "What is it?"

John lets out a heavy sigh and gives me a very serious look. This must be the look he gives his patients when he has to deliver bad news: "Fee, I don't want you to panic, because I need you to keep a leveled head about this, okay?"

"Okay."  
"I'm going to need your help getting him to the bedroom. We need to get him in bed so he can hopefully sleep off this fever. Once inside, I'll need you to undress him, put him in something comfortable, all right? The more comfortable he is, the easier he'll sleep."

I notice a sort of distressed look in John's eyes, which worries me even more. John is never distressed or at least never shows it. Must be the military training.

"John," I cautiously say, "do you know what's wrong with him?"

John takes in a sharp breath and licks his lower lip nervously; "Help me get him to the bedroom first." He quickly says, "I'll explain in there."

Very carefully, John and I bring Sherlock up to his feet and carry him to his bedroom; we each have one hand on his back and the other on his chest with Sherlock's arms draped over our shoulders. After gently placing him on the bed, John situates the blankets over Sherlock while I pull his pajamas out of his drawers.

"I left my kit in the living room," John says, "Keep an eye on him, I'll be right back." I nod and quickly go to my ill boyfriend's bedside, changing him into his grey t-shirt and flannel pants. It's almost like changing a doll, he's so limp. Once he's dressed, I lay him back against the soft bed and bring the covers up to cheeks. Sherlock then starts to groan and cough as he tugs the blankets around himself as tight as he can.

"Elfie?" he calls out

"I'm here." I reassure him, leaning in as close as I can, "You're okay. John's going to find out what's wrong."

"Elfie," he coughs, "…'m cold. An…and dizzy…"

"Shh, I know." I soothe, rubbing his arm gently, "You just need to sleep okay? Just go to sleep." Very slowly, he blinks his eyes open about halfway and locks his gaze with mine; His face mere inches away from mine. For a moment, I can see my Sherlock hiding out behind this sick man before me and it makes me smile a bit. "Hey handsome," I whisper, allowing a small tear too escape from my eyes. He smiles weakly and strokes my cheek to wipe it away.

"My darling, darling girl." He whispers; his voice is hoarse and tired, "I'm…I'm sorry…so sorry…"

"For what?" I ask,

"F-for…for getting…" he attempts to speak but is interrupted by violent coughing. My heart sinks to my stomach as I gently stoke some stray curls out of his eyes. Those eyes that normally sparkle that amazing shade of sea foam green are now dulled with illness. I place a comforting kiss on top of his head and within seconds, Sherlock is fast asleep with his hand intertwined with mine. I don't want to leave his side, not for one second.

How could this have happened? I am fully convinced that he didn't just get sick by mere chance. Something has caused this.

"Fee," John says from the doorway.

I turn my head to face him; "You know something don't you, John." I say, half hoping that I'm wrong. John nervously bites his lip and enters the room fully, not daring to make eye contact with me.

"John?"

He doesn't look at me; He only opens his med-bag and pulls out what tools he needs to diagnosis Sherlock.

"John."

He shakes his head in dismay and begins his examination. I let go of Sherlock's hand and quickly take John's.

"Please." I beg, looking him straight in the eye, "Don't keep me in the dark. What is going on?"

Reluctantly, John sighs and explains: "He made me promise not to tell you, but seeing the state he's in you need to know."

"Is it another text?" I ask

John shakes his head and continues to examine his best friend: "No, that I would have told you despite if Sherlock wanted you not to know." He then places a comforting hand on my shoulder, "It's about how Monroe died. You know that he was poisoned and such, but…Well, Sherlock had this theory."  
"Theory?"

"Yeah, he figured it out after the most recent text came in. He said that if Moriarty had someone watching you, then he would definitely have someone waiting to kill you."

I gulp down my fear and continue to listen to John with an emotionless face; I had figured that Moriarty would have a target on my back, but the mere thought of that makes me cringe.

"Since Monroe was killed in such a simple way, it would be no problem for Moriarty to arrange the same sort of death for you." John goes on, "That's what Sherlock warned me about before you two left this evening; 'Keep an eye out for anything unusual,' is what he said to me. Sherlock thought someone might break in here and tamper with your things. I guess the thought never occurred to him that you'd be attacked at dinner. You'd be safe when you were with him; no one could harm you then."

"So…are you saying that Sherlock was certain Moriarty was trying to poison me?" I ask, making sure that I have the story correct.

"Yes."

John and I both turn at the sound of Sherlock's hoarse reply. He only has his eyes open about halfway but I can see the sadness in his gaze. Very slowly, he props himself up on his right elbow and lifts his heavy from the pillow.

"You should rest," John says, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Dull." Sherlock replies, breathing heavily. He then looks John directly in the eyes, giving him that understanding look that he only gives to his best friend; it's like they are communicating in their own subconscious language. I usually don't mind it, but right now I wish I could figure out what they were wordlessly saying.

"Well," Sherlock whispers,

John takes in a deep breath and nods; "Yeah, it's looking like that." He says, sounding deeply upset, "Fever, dizziness, nausea. It all fits."

"In the bin…blood?"  
"Yeah, Sherlock, there was, mixed in with the vomit."

"Then we need to get you to a hospital," I interject, "this is serious. You'll need more than just rest." Sherlock sighs heavily and shakes his head. I roll my eyes in slight annoyance; even when ill, he can be so stubborn. "Honey, I know you hate hospitals, but if your…"

"Elfie," he says in a quiet voice, turning his gaze to me. I look into those eyes and I see something new about Sherlock: despair. Yes, I've seen him worried and a bit frightened, but never despaired. Now, I know something is terribly wrong, something far bigger than this mystery illness.

"What is it?" I ask, "Tell me and be honest."

Sherlock starts to coughs again and lies back down against the pillows. "I…I thought…I could pro-protect you." He says, in between shaky breaths, "But…But I was…careless."

"I don't understand," I say, gently cupping the left side of his face with my hand, "I'm fine. I don't feel sick or anything. Sherlock, you did protect me. You…" I then realize what Sherlock was truly saying, what he meant by being careless. What he and John were really saying to each other.

"_You_ were poisoned." I breathe out, allowing my emotions to seep through my voice, "You-you're like this because-That's what you meant by 'the glass', isn't it? At dinner, you're glass was…instead of mine-Oh my God." I quickly turn to John, begging him with my tear filled eyes that I was wrong. "Is that it?" I ask, "Is he-Just like Monroe, did Sherlock take the Aspirin without knowing?"

John tries to formulate something to say, but can't seem to find the words. He's just as upset as I am, but is so strong that he doesn't let it show. I envy that.

I turn back to Sherlock; "You had to have known," I cry, "you know everything. How could you not have known? Oh God, Sherlock," Giving in to my emotions, I wrap my arms around him and cry onto his shoulder; "Tell me I'm wrong!" I sob, "Tell me that this is just a-a bad case of the flu or-or something. Just don't tell me I'm going to loose you."

"Fee, I can take care of him." John finally speaks up, trying his best sound confident, "Monroe didn't have a live in doctor like…" Sherlock raises his shaky hand as if to tell John that it was okay. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see John nod then step out of the room to give us a moment of privacy. Slowly, he then wraps his arms around me and pulls me in close. I carefully move my arms to wrap around his torso and bury my face in his chest.

We lay there in silence, my Sherlock and I for countless minutes. Time is irrelevant to me right now. A whole month could go by and I won't notice because I'm in his arms. Despite being extremely weak right now, his hold around me is strong and comforting like it always is. God, this can't be happening. He couldn't have been tricked, like Jonathan Monroe. This is Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, a proper genius, and the smartest man in London. Who was this Moriarty to prove him otherwise?

"Elfie," he whispers into my ear, "L-look at me." Carefully, I lift my head to stare into those beautiful eyes of his. "You…you have to finish…finish this," he says, trying his best to keep his voice strong and clear, "please."  
"Finish what?" I ask, moving to lie on my side beside him so that Sherlock can breathe a bit easier.

"The case." He says, "Monroe."  
"But you solved it. Robert was working with Moriarty and…" Sherlock shakes his head and places a finger to my lips.

"Le-Lestrade," he goes on, "The data…take it to…"

"You want me to bring the information you've collected to Scotland Yard." I say for him, "Is that what you mean?"

Sherlock nods.

"But what about Moriarty?" I ask, "If Robert is arrested then he won't talk. You said it yourself; he's going to lawyer up in no time."

"You...can get him…too." Sherlock breathes out: exhaustion clearly over taking him.

"How?" I ask, stroking his warm cheek, "I'm not you, Sherlock."

He tries to speak, but lets out an agonized moan instead. Curling up into a ball, he hides his face in his pillow and begins to shake. Afraid that he may vomit again, I rise up off the bed to go get John.

"Don't!" Sherlock suddenly cries, grabbing onto my arm to stop me, "Don't…leave me."

Those words; it's the third time I've heard him utter them to me and each time he's needed me.

First was over the phone during Baskerville, then when we had fought and now.

Now he needs me more than ever.

Without a second thought, I sit back down on the edge of the bed and take both of Sherlock's hands into my own. "I'm not going anywhere," I promise him, kissing his knuckles, "I promise."

Sherlock looks up at me with half-opened, fever-stricken eyes and smiles; "Oh my darling, darling girl," he whispers, stroking my cheek, "I…I love you." Gently, he hooks his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me down so his forehead can rest against my own. I can feel the fever radiating off of him as I place my hands on his chest.

"I love you more," I whisper, "and I'm going to find out who did this to you, no matter what it takes."

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a breathy chuckle: "You sound like...me." he teases, giving me a soft peck on my cheek.

I can't help but smile and kiss him on the lips, which he gently returns before drifting off into a feverish sleep. I exit the bedroom and walk down the hall to the living room, letting everything that has happened set in.

John is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Cautiously, I take a step toward him. Hearing me, he shoots his head up and we both lock eyes.

"Fee," he begins, "I'm sorry. I-"

"Don't," I say, tearing up again, "Just-I don't want to hear apologizes. John, I-I just need a friend right now." Instantly, John and I wrap our arms around each other in a comforting embrace.

"It's going to be okay." He says, stroking my back, "We're going to make it okay."

"I know," I say, breaking away to look at him face to face, "We have too. I have to find out who did this to Sherlock and the only way I can do that is to finish this Monroe business."

"But what more is there to be done?" John asks,

"I have to tell Lestrade what Sherlock's discovered. From there, I need to get Robert to tell me about Moriarty. I don't know how, but I'm sure as hell going to get that information." John chuckles slightly and I look at him in confusion: "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just…you really are Sherlock's girl." He says giving me a proud smile. I smile back and embrace him again. Suddenly, we hear the ring of Sherlock's cell phone from his coat that has been strewn on the floor. "Huh, that'll be Lestrade." John says, going to answer it, "Maybe you don't have to go down to Scotland Yard after all."

He pulls the phone out from the coat pocket and stares at the screen in confusion.

"What is it?" I ask, joining him.

"I don't recognize the number." John replies, showing me the screen, "Do you?" I shake my head, but then a thought pops into my brain. My face grows stern and cold. "You okay?" John asks, but I ignore him. Without uttering another word, I grab the phone and answer it:

"Hello."

"Oh, this is a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting to hear from you."  
"I think you were."

"Well, think what you'd like. Is Sherlock there?"  
"No."

"Oh no, is he not feeling well?"

"You tell me."

"Ah ha, you are a clever one. I heard you were clever. I guess you have to be if you're going to be Sherlock's companion. Any who, now that I've got you on the line, I think I should properly introduce myself to you…Elfie Marie Stegerson."

"Oh, but I already know who you are…Jim Moriarty."

_**What? Two chapters within a 24-hour time period and another cliffhanger?**_

_**Oi vey!**_

_**Anyway, I wanted to post this ASAP because I felt I owed it to you guys. Your support is very much appreciated and loved. Sherlock being sick doesn't mean he's out of the picture: oh no, far from it. Plus there will be more twists and turns to come.**_

_**Once again, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	17. Chapter 17: It's Nice to Meet Me

_Chapter 17: It's Nice to Meet Me_

John's face goes pale and I can see the anger building up in his eyes; "Is that-what does that son of a bitch want? Fee?"

"Oh, is that Johnny boy?" Moriarty exclaims on the other end, "I thought Sherlock had tossed him aside for you. Ooo he sounds upset. Hand him the phone won't you, Elfie. I need to say hello."

"Fee, give me the phone." John demands in his captain's voice, "I can handle him." I quickly shoot up my hand and place it on John's chest to wordlessly tell him that I'd handle this; I'm not afraid of him.

"You're not going to talk to him," I hiss into the receiver, "You're talking to me. This is between us."

"What is? Oh, hang on now I remember," Moriarty teases, "you must be referring to my little messages. Games are fun aren't they?"

"If you could call killing an innocent man and threatening my life a game, then no, not so much." I challenge.

"Ah, Monroe was just an contract," he says, "It was by mere chance that Sherlock got involved in all of it. I only decided to place the threat toward you because I saw the opportune moment. Tell me, was it before or after Robert St. Simon asked him to take on the case that Sherlock figured out it was all me?"

"He knew right away; you didn't fool him." I snap back, "He's far more clever than you give him credit for."

"I give him plenty of credit, missy, that's why I love to play with him. He's so…out of the ordinary. He's my favorite little toy; you just have to wind him up and watch him go."

I feel a shiver go up my spine as this creep compares Sherlock to an inanimate object. His voice is so smooth and venomous, almost like a snakes hiss. God, he's worse than I had imagined.

"Fee, let me talk to him." John whispers, taking my hand into both of his, "You don't have to do this."

"You should go check on Sherlock," I whisper back, looking John dead in the eye. Sighing in defeat, John places a comforting kiss on my knuckles and exits toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"Hellooo," Moriarty practically sings, "you still there?"

"Why did you call?" I ask, keeping my voice clear and stern, "Are you confirming this is all over?"  
"Over? HA! You're cute." Moriarty says with a scoff, "You think because our Sherlock's solved the case of Jonathan Monroe that the game is over? Oh no, no, no, sweet pea, this is far from over. Thanks to a little mistake, you just entered round two of this game and congratulations, you've just swapped places with the star player."

"Mistake? What mistake?"  
"Believe it or not, hon', Sherlock was never meant to take the Aspirin-"

"I know. I was."

"Laced the wrong glass, those idiots. It's sad really; I had this beautiful picture in my head of Sherlock sobbing at your bedside: the heartless genius finally reaching his breaking point. Ah, well, you've got to play with the cards your dealt. Looks like it's just you and me now, unless you're not up to the challenge."

"Challenge?" I ask, swallowing a big gulp of nerves.

"This isn't just some brain teaser that Sherlock and I have going; this is a high stakes, life or death, competition." He replies, "There's a reason I am where I am in the criminal underworld; it's because I'm better than the rest of them. They all come to me for advice and I gladly give it. It's how I make a living. Sound familiar to you? Sherlock is the same way and that's what makes him the perfect opponent. You? You're just a side dish, a supporting role, not nearly as interesting as he is. Same goes for John; your both so boring, but perfect tools for breaking Sherlock."

"So that's your plan all along; to break Sherlock."

"Of course, that's my whole point in doing this. Fortunately, I won't have to break anything, thanks to the little Aspirin mishap. My plan was to take you and John from Sherlock, but now natures taking it own course. You two are his heart and now that heart is failing. It's barely pumping enough blood and oxygen to keep his body going. He is still breathing, isn't he? Must be the stamina he's built up from all those years of being strung out on cocaine."  
"Shut up," I hiss, finally allowing a tear to roll down my cheek, "You don't know anything about that!"

"Oh ho, there we go! Now we are getting somewhere." Moriarty laughs, "I like my women feisty and I was hoping you wouldn't disappoint. You see, the thing is Elfie; I don't want to play this game with you. You're just too boring. However, Sherlock getting sick has left me with no choice. I could get John to do it, but he's no fun: much better at being a pawn. So here's my offer: Join my game, or back out now while you still can. Either way I'm not going away, so you better think fast. Play along or sit back and watch me work."

My face remains cold and unaffected by Moriarty's taunting, despite the overwhelming feeling to just break down and cry. He's right; I'm not up for the challenge. I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I'm just a girl from America who got swept up in this whole thing because of the man she loves. And now, that love is lying in his bed, fighting off the poison that is slowly taking him apart.

Suddenly, I can hear Sherlock's words echo through my head:

"… _She can handle anything that is thrown her direction. She has a brilliant mind, that is for certain."_

Sherlock had faith in me, even when I couldn't find it in myself. I owe it to him to deal with this Moriarty problem. Sherlock wants me to finish this and that is exactly what I'm going to do. I have to keep calm. I have to be strong.

I have to do this for Sherlock.

"I'm not afraid of you." I reply with an icy sting, "You want me to take Sherlock's place, I will do so without hesitation."

"Will you now? Well, well, well!" Moriarty says with a laugh, "Look who's gotten a boost of self confidence? You're just as cocky as your boyfriend."

"Maybe, but it won't be my downfall."

"Dramatic like him too. I like that. This will be fun."

"Oh I don't expect anything less from you," I challenge, "What do you have in mind?"  
"You know what happened to Monroe, but Sherlock hasn't finished the big picture." Moriarty explains, "Take the next step: turn in the data and let the police take St. Simon in. He was a sad attempt at a criminal anyway, so it really isn't a loss."

"And then what? Sit back and wait for your next call."

"Let me finish, cutie. Robert will beg for a deal-his type always do. He'll talk. You'll listen. From there, it will pretty easy for you to finish the puzzle. Who knows, if you're lucky you might find out who made your darling detective so sick. Maybe even find out how long he's got before his body shuts down. Finish the case and you might just get to save your love's life. Better hurry, now, Elfie Marie. Sherlock's clock is ticking and if his body is anything like Monroe's, it won't last that long."

I take in a deep breath and close my eyes; "You're on." I reply, "What happens when I've figured it all out?"

"You'll be hearing from me."

"Looking forward to it."

I quickly take the phone away from my ear, press the end button, and toss it onto the couch. Finally allowing my walls to break down, I hide my face in my hands and let out a heavy sigh. _'What am I thinking,'_ I tell myself, _'what the hell am I thinking? I have no idea where to go from here. Elfie, you're no consulting detective. You're a historian. God, where's Sherlock when I need him.' _I hear Sherlock's words in my head again and I take in a deep breath. I shake off any twinge of doubt in my mind and head toward Sherlock's bedroom. I need a place to think.

When I reach the door, I quietly turn the knob and enter on tiptoe, in fear that I might wake Sherlock. It's dark and the echo of the pounding rain outside gives the whole scene a sort of glum feeling. The only light in the room is coming from the bedside lamp, slightly illuminating Sherlock's sleeping face: so weak, but peaceful. He's lying on his side with one arm hugging his stomach and the other limply hanging off the edge of the mattress. The sheets have kicked off, probably because of his fever, and I can hear him moan feverish nothings under his breath.

John is seated on the edge of the bed with two fingers gently pressed against Sherlock's neck with a worried expression on his face. I've never seen John so upset before. He doesn't show emotion, but not in the way Sherlock doesn't. John knows when to be compassionate and upset and so on, but he also knows when to be serious and cold. Right now, he's sad: so unbearably sad.

"Any change?" I ask in a whisper, taking a seat beside him.

"I'm monitoring his heart rate," he replies, concentrating on Sherlock's face, "It's stable but I don't know about this fever. If it gets any higher I don't know-" John pauses for a moment and takes his fingers away. I can see the tears swelling up in his eyes and he's struggling so hard to keep them from falling. Then a small smile grows across his face; "Did Sherlock ever tell you about our first case together?" he asks, finally looking at me.

"Partially," I say, giving him a half mouth smile, "I mostly read about it on your blog. _'The Study in Pink'_ right?"

"'_The Study in Pink'_," John says with a chuckle, "He hated that I called it that; still does actually. Says it's the least clever title I've ever come up with." He pauses again and looks back at Sherlock, "I killed a man during that case." He says, "The taxi driver; the man behind those deaths. I shot him from the building parallel from where he and Sherlock were. Lucky shot too, I have no idea how I aimed so perfectly."

"You?" I ask, a bit taken back, "But I thought it was…"

"Some random person who was in the right place at the right time?" John says, giving me a raised eyebrow look, "Sherlock said that was the story we had to stick with; a guy like that was bound to have some enemies."

"How did you know Sherlock was in trouble?"

"Gut instinct, I guess, and the police were taking awhile and I knew that if we wasted anytime…it would have been Sherlock's corpse they'd be cleaning up, not the taxi drivers." John sighs heavily again and looks down into his lap. I place a comforting arm around his shoulders and urge him to keep talking; he needs to get this off his chest.

"That was only a few nights after we had met," he goes on in almost a whisper, "Crazy isn't it? I come home from the war, meet a complete stranger and get thrown right back into a hectic lifestyle. Since meeting Sherlock, I have never had a relaxing moment. So far I've shot a murderous cab driver, helped crack a Chinese smuggling code, encountered a devious dominatrix, chased a genetically enhanced hound through the countryside as well as had frequent run ins with Jim Moriarty. And they say that life after war is dull."

I chuckle slightly and rub John's shoulders in a comforting way. He chuckles back and takes my hands into his: "I'm sorry, Fee, I shouldn't get emotional. It's just-Jesus, I just wish there was more I could do. If I could save him then, why can't I do it now? I owe it to him."

"Hey," I say, feeling my own eyes begin to well up, "we're going to get through this. Sherlock's going to be fine I…I know it. You're going to save him."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

John nods and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his cream jumper. "He's my best mate," he says, "and-Bloody hell, I care about the prick. He can be such a pain, but he doesn't deserve this. And neither do you. Moriarty has no right to harass you."

"That doesn't matter," I say, trying my best to be strong, "All I want to fix this whole mess and get Sherlock back to health."

"But how are we going to do that? We have no idea where to go with all of this information."

"Yes we do. Sherlock told me to go down to Scotland Yard and turn in all the information he's collected on the Monroe case. Lestrade will arrest Robert and…and I know where to go from there." I nervously bite my bottom lip and look away from John's concerned gaze. "Moriarty-He told me what I have to do." I say with a hint of nervousness, "I have to turn Robert in and get him to talk."

"Fee," John says becoming extremely worried, "you can't trust a single word that man says. He's a monster."

"But I have to do this." I say, looking him directly in the eyes, "I promised Sherlock I would. Moriarty challenged me to finish this and that's what I'm going to do."

"Fee, listen to me. If Sherlock were healthy enough he'd…"

"Try and stop me, I know. But John, this is the only way I can help him. I know what I have to do and I'm going to need you to support me on this."

John takes in a heavy sigh, looks at Sherlock and then back at me; "Alright, fine," he says with an affirmative nod, "I'm here for you. Just…don't get yourself hurt, okay? I can't loose the both of you to that maniac."

"Your not going to loose either of us." I say wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug, "I promise you." He hugs me back and places a kiss on my cheek. Feeling a sudden need for comfort, I tighten my hold on John and he gladly returns the gesture. I need a friend right now and John is the perfect friend anyone could ask for.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooo

The next morning, I awake feeling well rested and prepared to face the day's challenges. John had made me sleep in his bedroom in fear of Sherlock becoming more ill in the night. I don't think he did; I didn't hear anything too disturbing from downstairs, apart from Sherlock having a coughing fit or throwing up. My heart ached every time. I don't know how I eventually feel asleep.

Moriarty's voice haunted my dreams and they still are running through my mind as I take a shower and get dressed. He thinks I'm not as smart as Sherlock, and maybe's he's right. But I'm not going to let that stop me. Sherlock needs me and I'm going to everything in my power to save him from this horrible mess were in.

I tie my long dark hair up into a high pony, slip on my black slacks, boots and black fitted sweater and make down to the living room. John, who graciously slept on the couch last night, is reading over one of his medical books by the bookshelf. He looks surprisingly well rested for someone who spent most of the night aiding to his ill best friend.

"Morning." I say, grabbing my satchel from the coat rack.

"Morning," John replies, looking up from the book, "you off already?"

"I want to get this over with, John, as soon as possible. The faster it's done, the faster we can get on with our lives. Do you know where Sherlock kept the file?" John motions his head to the desk by the window and I quickly grab the fat, manila folder with the word Monroe scribbled on top in blue ink. We hear some muffled moans coming from down the hall and we both turn our heads in their direction. Oh my poor Sherlock; "How is he?" I cautiously ask.

"Sick," John says, returning to his book, "as basic as that answer is. He's really, really sick. I can't give him any medication for his fever or for the coughing because of the Aspirin, but I've figured out ways to treat each symptom separately using basic home remedies."

"Home remedies?"

"Yeah, you know: rag dipped in cold water and draped over his forehead to keep the fever down, juice to keep him hydrated, that kind of stuff."

"God, if he had enough energy, Sherlock would be fighting with you every step of the way. He'd be acting like a child."  
"Well, then maybe that's the one good thing that'll come out of this. Maybe he'll finally be grateful for me taking care of him."

I smile and place a hand on John's shoulder; "Don't tell him I told you this," I say in a mock whisper, "but he already is grateful for you."

John blushes a bit and smiles. "You should go in there and see him," he says, "He may not be awake, but he'll hear you."

I nod and quickly head down the hall to the bedroom. When I enter the room, I'm surprised to see Sherlock curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed with eyes open, staring at me like a child. His hair is a mess and his hands are twitching. The sheets are tossed about him like he had been moving around in a flurry the previous night. Maybe it was better I didn't share I bed with him.  
"Hey," I say, going to his side and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I'm surprised your up. John said you'd be sleeping."

"…Dull." He moans, trying his best to sound like himself.

"Getting better is dull?"

"Mmm."

"Well too bad," I say, helping him stretch out, "you need to get better and soon because I need you."

"No…" he grumbles, "you're…go-going to…be fine." He then looks up at me with concerned gaze and slowly latches a shaky hand to the coat I'm wearing. "Mine." He manages to say before letting out a horse cough.

"Yeah, I hope you don't mind," I say with a giggle, "The storm picked up again and well-Actually, I…I just wanted to feel like part of you was going to be with me today while I'm talking to Lestrade." Sherlock smiles weakly at me and strokes my cheek. I hold his hand in place and kiss it gently, "I wish you could come with me." I whisper, "I could really use you right now."

"Fine." He says, "You…You'll be fine. Just don't…don't-" Suddenly, he begins to cough violently. I quickly help him sit upright so that he can catch his breath. I rub his back soothingly and wait for the fit to pass. I can feel my heart breaking into tiny pieces. I really can't take much more of this. When he's done, Sherlock lies back down with his head resting sideways comfortably on his pillow.

"You okay?" I ask, but then I shake my head, "Sorry stupid question."

"No…no," he breathes out, "…'m fine…" We lock eyes and for just a mere second I can see that sparkle in Sherlock's eyes that I love so much. I lean down and place a passionate kiss on his lips, not giving a care in the world of how sick he is. To my happy surprise, he kisses me back with all the energy that he can muster.

"I love you," I whisper when our lips finally part, stoking his warm cheekbones, "and I always will."

"…Love…you…too." He whispers in reply before slipping into another deep, fever stricken sleep. I sigh heavily and place another kiss on his forehead. As I rise to go, I notice a small stain on Sherlock's pillowcase. I lean in closer and notice immediately what it is. Carefully, I cup Sherlock's face in my hands and lift his head to face me fully.

There, on the left corner of his mouth, is small trickling stand of blood.

_**Ugh, why do I do this to poor Sherlock? Why?**_

_**Hope the Moriarty confrontation was okay. It is really hard to write his kind of crazy, ya know. I had intended to include Scotland Yard in this chapter but I really wanted to get out the John feels first. Plus, Elfie's going to find some interesting discoveries when she meets up with Lestrade…but lets not give too much away now, shall we?**_

_**Thanks as always for the favorites, follows and comments. **_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	18. Chapter 18: Freak's Girlfriend

_Chapter 18: Freak's Girlfriend_

"Oi! Watch it will you!"

"Sorry, in a rush."

I quickly push past the people bustling out of the tube station really not giving a single care if I was causing them an inconvenience. I don't have all the time in the world like these people do. Sherlock is only getting worse by the moment and the sooner I finish this case the sooner I can get back to his side. I can't get the image of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth out of my head nor the wretched sound of his coughing. Oh my poor Sherlock.

'_Focus, Elfie,'_ I tell myself, _'you need to get this done and over with.'_

The storm hasn't let up since this morning. The sky is so dark and cloudy that it's almost impossible to tell that it's almost mid-day. The cold, stinging rain is blown against my cheeks causing me annoying discomfort. Without really thinking about it, I pop up the collar of Sherlock's coat to protect my face. I smile at a recent memory of the two of us:

"_Really, Sherlock, why do you do that with your coat?"_

"_Do what? Oh, God, not you as well. Listen, I'm not trying to impress anyone, okay. My face get's cold just like any other persons hence the large collar. It has nothing to do with my cheekbones or-or appearing mysterious."_

"_Yeah okay but…well, do you have to act like you're a super villain every time you do it?"_

"_...Do I?"_

"_Yeah, just a bit."_

"_Oh…What? What's with the laugh? What's so funny?"_

"_Nothing, nothing. It's just…I love you, Sherlock."_

"_And I love you, Elfie."_

A small tear rolls down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. _'Damn it, Elfie, you can't cry right now; you need to be focused.' _I scold myself,_ 'be brave. You can do this.' _Shaking away my worried thoughts, I stuff my hands deep into the coat pockets and pick up my pace. Within minutes, I am at the doorstep of New Scotland Yard. I take a deep breath and enter.

The Yard is a bit more intimidating then I had imagined it to be. Then again, what police station isn't intimidating? I've never been here before so I don't even know where to find Lestrade; He always just seemed to appear whenever Sherlock needed him. To be honest, I don't even know how I'm going to begin all of this. Can I really just say 'Um, hey, I'm Sherlock's girlfriend. He told me to give you this. Can I talk to Robert St. Simon after you've arrested him?' Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

Adjusting the strap of my satchel over my shoulder, I head up to the front desk and address the person sitting there: "Excuse me," I say, trying my best to sound professional, "I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Do you need to report something?" the officer asks, not even looking up from his paper.

"Uh, no. Well, yes I do…sort of. I just really need to speak with Lestrade."

"Why is that?"

I bite my lower lip and tap my fingers nervously in my pocket: I can't explain all of this to some random guy. I don't want to risk anything. "I just need to speak with him, only him," I finally say, "I'm… I'm here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me, miss?"

I roll my eyes; I really don't have time to deal with this guy. "No, but it means something to Detective Inspector Lestrade." I say with a hint of sass, "Please, just tell me where I can find him."

The officer gives me a sideways glance and reaches over to the phone placed at the corner of his desk: "Wait there, someone will be with you shortly," he says, motioning his head to a wooden bench. I quietly take a seat and watch him as he makes a call. Trying to occupy myself and not look too conspectus, I pull out my phone and call John. He answers on the third ring:

"It's been 30 minutes since you've left. Don't you trust me to look after him? I am a trained medical professional."

I chuckle at John's light humor; "Sorry, I'm just worried." I reply, "How is he though, really?"

"Moaning on the couch," he says, with a heavy sigh, "Fever has gone from 40˚C to 38˚C and the shakes haven't stopped. Honestly, he's fighting it really well, but he has his ups and downs. He woke up a little while after you left. I got him to drink some water but not a lot; he can't really keep anything down."

"What about the blood?" I ask,

"I'm keeping an eye on it." He replies, "Fee, I may need to take him to the hospital if this doesn't let up soon."

I sigh heavily and look away up at the ceiling. Sherlock can't go the hospital; Moriarty could easily get to him there. Then again, there's only so much John can do at Baker Street. "There is one idea I have," I cautiously say, "but-God Sherlock would hate it."

"What is it? Trust me, anything would be a good idea right now."

"Well…is there anything Mycroft can do?"

"Possibly, but are you sure you want him involved in this?" John replies with a heavy sigh, "He has a tendency to over react."

"John? Who…who is it?" I hear a soft groan in the background of the receiving end and I can't help but smile.

"It's Elfie. Go back to sleep," John calls out, "I'm-Hey! Get back on the couch, you-Oi! Give me the phone-"

"Hello you," Sherlock's voice is horse and his words are slurred; I can tell that's he's using all of strength to speak. Still, I can't help but feel so relived to hear his baritone again. He sounds like himself and that, too me, is a good sign.

"Hello," I reply, grinning like a school girl, "shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Dull. Where…where are you?"

"Scotland Yard, waiting to talk to Lestrade." I say, looking over at the officer at the desk, who has returned to his paper, "I feel out of place."

"Don't. You'll be fine." He sighs, "You're…smarter than most of them…anyway. I wish…wish I could be with you."

"Me too," I chuckle as my cheeks warm slightly and turn a bright shade of pink, "How are you feeling?"

"Like death." He groans, "S-sorry, I shouldn't…talk like that. Everything just…hurts."

"I know, darling, I know." I say, holding back my tears, "I wish there was more I could do for you."

"Just…keep talking to me." He breathes out, the exhaustion taking over him again, "That's…all...I need."

I force a small smile but it soon fades as Sherlock begins coughing violently on the other end. My eyes are now burning with my held back tears and my heart is aching. God, when will this be over and done with?

"Fee," Sherlock slowly breathes out in between coughs, "I…I know…who did this."

"Did what?" I ask, sitting up straight, "The person who made you sick? You know who it was?"

"Mhm." He grumbles, "Just…think."

"I don't understand," I say, furrowing my brow, "Honey what are you say-" Before I could ask any more questions, John takes the phone back:

"Fee, he's passing out again. Gotta go."

And with that, the line goes dead. I lean back against the bench and stuff my hands in my pockets. What did Sherlock mean? How could he know who…what am I thinking, this is Sherlock. Of course he already knows.

Just then, a tall, lengthy, curly haired woman emerges from one of the lifts and heads straight for me. This must be one of Lestrade's people; hopefully she's not the one Sherlock's told me about, Donovan or whatever her name is.

"You the one whose here about Sherlock Holmes?" she asks (practically demands, really).

"Y-yes. Yes I am," I say, standing up, "I…"

"What's he done to you?" she inquires, folding her arms across her chest, "Has he been following you? Experimenting on your personal affects?"

"Beg pardon?" I ask, a bit flabbergasted,

"Every time we hear that name around here, it usually means he's done something wrong." She explains, "So tell me, has he harmed you in anyway?"

"Um, no." I reply with a chuckle, "I'm not here to report Sherlock, far from it actually. I'm Elfie Stegerson. I'm his girlfriend."

The woman's eyes grow wide and she scoffs; "Really? You're not joking." She says, "You're Freak's girlfriend?"

Yeah, this is Donovan. I'm sure of it now.

"I am, yes." I reply with a twinge of annoyance, "And you must be Sgt. Donovan. I've heard so much about you."

"Have you? Well, I've never heard of you." She snaps back, "How do I know I can trust you?"  
"You don't have to trust me, since I'm not here to see you." I reply, "I'm here to see Lestrade."

"Why?"  
"I'm delivering some information."

"About?"

"A case."

"You want to go into detail about that."

"Not with you, no." I give her a sly smile and Donovan just rolls her eyes. She motions me to follow her and I quickly do so. I stuff my hands into the coat pockets again and stay a few steps behind as we enter the lift, travel to the third floor in silence and then exit onto the busy, homicide division, floor.

"Lestrade's office is straight ahead." Donovan hisses, "I can imagine you can take yourself. I have to get back to work."

I don't even attempt to thank her; I have more important work to do then attempt to be civil with this woman. Adjusting my satchel strap on my shoulder, I make a b-line for Lestrade's office. I can hear murmured whispers from the other officers as I pass:

"Whose that?"

"I've seen her with Holmes before."

"Is wearing the freak's coat?"

"She's pretty; you sure she's friend's with Sherlock Holmes?"

'_Just ignore it, Fee,'_ I tell myself, _'you can do this.' _

I reach the door of the office and quickly knock. "It's open." Comes the gruff reply from inside. Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob and step inside. Detective Inspector Lestrade is reclining in his chair with his feet propped up on to his desk, looking very calm and collected. Not really the image one has of a big homicide detective.

"Um, Detective Inspector?" I begin, nervously stepping inside the office fully, "I'm…I'm Elfie Stegerson."

"Yeah, I remember you." He says, lowering his feet and extending his hand to me, "Your Sherlock's girlfriend. Blimey that's still a bit odd to say. Pleasure to see you again."

"And you." I say, shaking his hand.

"Please, have a seat." He says, leaning forward onto his elbows, "I expect we have a lot to talk about." I grab one the chairs in front of the desk and take a seat with a nod, setting my satchel down beside me.

Lestrade is one of the very few people Sherlock would trust with his life. By very few, of course, I mean that Lestrade is one of four: John, Mrs. Hudson, him and then myself. The first time I met the silver haired inspector was at a crime scene about a week or so ago. Sherlock and I were actually cuddling on my couch when he had called Sherlock to investigate a triple homicide. I think John was out of town visiting his sister. I had told Sherlock to go, but he insisted that if he did, he would have to bring me along; He said it was his duty as a boyfriend since he had promise to dedicate that afternoon to time with me. I guess it was his way of flattering me.

When we reached the crime scene, Sherlock had taken me by the hand and quickly introduced me to Lestrade…sort of; "Lestrade, this is Elfie Stegerson. She is my girlfriend and I will not hear a single word on the oddity of that statement. She will remain down here with a couple of your least annoying officers while I head up to examine the bodies. I'll be done in about 5, won't take long." The Detective Inspector had just stared at me in confusion, slowly processing the information he had just been given: Sherlock? A girlfriend? What?

Never the less, I stood beside him, watching the many officers and medical examiners running back and forth. We didn't talk much; all he asked was how Sherlock and I met and when we had begun dating. I told him our unusual love story and he just nodded. I'm still not completely sure he believed it or not.

"So, I'm told that you have some information for me on the death of Jonathan Monroe," Lestrade says,

"Yeah, Sherlock figured it all out." I say, pulling the file out of my satchel and handing it him.

"That was fast," Lestrade scoffs, flipping through the pages.

"Well, you know him." I say, "Once he's started working on a case, he won't stop until it's done."

Lestrade chuckles as he reads over what looks like the finance reports for Robert's company. I watch him intently, ready to explain what Sherlock has discovered, but am taken back when he closes the folder and tosses it onto his desk. Is he uninterested? Feeling a bit annoyed by his reaction, I straighten up and clear my throat.

"Problem?" I ask

"No, no, not at all." He says, "The information is…well, it's solid. Everything from the finance reports, the cause of death, everything."

"So?"

"So, something isn't fitting."

"Maybe I can help," I offer, "I was with Sherlock the whole time when he was working on this case. I can explain-"

"You misunderstand me, Ms. Stegerson," Lestrade says with a worried tone to his voice, "We already now all the details."

"You do? How?"

"Because Robert St. Simon confessed to Monroe's murder as well as embezzlement this morning when he turned himself in."

I take in a sharp breath and bite my lower lip. This is an unexpected turn of events. Robert turned himself in? Why? Just last night, he was furious at the fact Sherlock had caught him so why would he change his mind? He's too proud. Did Hattie talk him into it or something? That's the only explanation I can think of. Someone must have told him to turn himself in. He's too proud to have done it willingly. But who? The only other person who knew about the account was Moriarty and…Wait. That's it.

"Stupid," I mutter under my breath, "Stupid, stupid me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade asks, "You alright?"

"I'm such an idiot," I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose in annoyance, "I took that psycho's word and then he went and tricked me. Of course he did."  
"Whoa, what psycho? Moriarty?"

"You knew about that too?" I ask, looking at him with wide eyes, "Did Robert explain everything to you guys?"

"Pretty much."

"Damn it." I declare, "He set me up to look like a complete idiot. Moriarty told me what I could do and then…I came here under the impression that Robert wasn't going to turn himself in. That you would arrest him and then I'd get him to tell me about the whole incident and…God, what am I going to do?"

I run my hands over my hair and breathe in deeply. To my surprise, Lestrade rises from his chair and sets a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asks, looking at me with a stern, yet caring face.

"He's…ill." I reply, "He…He was poisoned and it's my fault."

"Tell me everything." Lestrade demands, kneeling down beside me so that we are face to face.

I quickly tell Lestrade everything: the texts, the connection between this Monroe incident and myself, Moriarty's phone call, everything. His face doesn't change as he takes in my story. It's almost like he already knew most of these things, but I'm only just confirming his doubts. I feel like breaking down and crying but I know that I have to stay strong.

"So this was all Moriarty," he says, slowly standing up, "you sure of that?"

"Positive," I reply, wiping away access tears, "He was out to get me because he wanted to destroy Sherlock and he used this Monroe case as a way to do it. That poisoned wine glass was for me, not Sherlock."

Lestrade sighs heavily and shakes his head: "I don't think so." He says

"What do you mean? Do you know something?"

"St. Simon confessed to a plan to make you sick, that part you've got right." He goes on, "but it's the wine glass bit where it gets a bit confusing. It wasn't meant for you; it was intended for Sherlock to drink the poison. St. Simon said that it was a last minute change of plan he and his accomplice had."

"Accomplice?" I ask, thoroughly confused, "You mean, Moriarty?"

"No, I mean an accomplice. Someone who's been in on this whole thing from the beginning, but was hiding out in the background while Robert was at the forefront. They were the one who contacted Moriarty and planed to set up Monroe. If this person was the real master mind, they may be able to give you the answers you need to help Sherlock."

"Did he give you a name?" I ask, eager to find this son of a bitch.

Lestrade nods. "Who is it? What's his name?" I press for an answer. The detective inspector sighs heavily and looks me dead in the eyes.

"Her." He says

"Her?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

"The accomplice is a _she_, Ms. Stegerson." Lestrade goes on, "A she by the name of Hattie Weston, Robert St. Simon's fiancé. I believe she's an friend of yours."

_**Hello all!**_

_**Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. To be honest, it didn't turn out the way I would have liked it too but I got out what I needed. **_

_**Did ya see that twist coming? **__**I did my best to hide any clues. I am new to writing mystery stories, so I hope it paid off. Anyway, thank you all as always for the love and support. It is always appreciated and welcomed.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon**_

_**Much love and many thanks!**_


	19. Chapter 19: Cold

_Chapter 19: Cold_

_Hattie Ann Weston: Journalism major from San Francisco, head investigative journalist for a leading London paper, and fiancé to a wealthy heir to a family business. _

I go through her bio as I quickly follow Lestrade to the small room where Scotland Yard has been holding Robert since this morning. I'm angry, upset, confused-just a complete wreck on the inside: Hattie, the real mastermind of this whole ordeal? Impossible!

_Hattie Ann Weston: My best friend from college, my flat mate, my partner in crime, and my sister-not by blood, but by true devotion._

She would never dream of doing such a thing. There is no reason in the world for her to plan this horrible disaster, let alone take part in any of it. Besides she would never try and hurt me. Never.

_Hattie Ann Weston: contacted James Moriarty, embezzled one million pounds from her fiancé's business and poisoned the love of my life._

No, she couldn't have. She wouldn't do that to me. She just wouldn't.

After what feels like hours, we reach the door of the interrogation room. I can see Robert through the observation glass, sitting at the center table with his head resting on his folded arms. I clench my hands into fists in the pockets of my coat and just glare: that bastard. He's only pushing the blame on Hattie because he doesn't want to take any of the wrap for it. That's the only logical solution.

"You sure you still want to talk to him?" Lestrade asks, setting my hand on my shoulder.

"I'm fine." I coldly reply, not even looking at him, "I won't do anything crazy. Just give me 10 minutes."

"10 minutes?" he asks, "You can get all your answers in just-"

"10 minutes." I snap, "Time me if you like. Now, can you please just let me in with him?" Lestrade sighs heavily and slowly removes his hand.

"You've got that look, you know." He says, going to open the door. I snap my head to finally make eye contact with the detective inspector and raise my eyebrow in confusion. "That look where you'd do anything, no matter the cost, to get the correct answers," he goes on, "That's his look, Sherlock's look. I can see it now, why he chose you. You're just like him."

I take in a sharp breath and quickly turn away to hide my watery eyes. Our conversation from last night quickly echoes in my brain:

"_I love you more, and I'm going to find out who did this to you, no matter what it takes."_

"_You sound like...me."_

I look up at the ceiling and wipe my eyes dry; I can do this, I have to do this. Turning on my heel, I face Lestrade again and nod: "Open the door."

Lestrade turns the knob and opens the door for me: "I'll be watching and if you need anything, just holler." Without so much as a 'thank you' or any form of acknowledgement, I storm past him and into the room. The door closes and Robert lifts his head at the sound of the click. His eyes lock with mine and we just stare stone-faced at one another; neither of us speaks, nor shows any sign of emotion. I feel like I've just walked in on an intense duel where there can only be one victor.

Trust me, it's not going to be him.

"I had a feeling you'd show," Robert grumbles, running his hands through his auburn hair, "well actually, I was mainly expecting your boyfriend and his doctor to come in and gloat."

"I highly doubt that," I reply, taking a seat parallel to him, "Sherlock's not feeling well and John's not the gloating type."

Robert chuckles to himself and gives me that creepy, chestier cat smile. A cold shiver runs up my spine, but I remain calm and collected. I had watched Sherlock interrogate suspects before and the sort of art he brings to it; one must remain unphased by the situation to maintain the upper hand. That's my plan in here. He's not going to get the best of me.

"Tell me, when did it start?" Robert taunts, leaning back in his chair with one arm still resting on the metal table, "Was it right after Hattie and I left the restaurant or were you two able to make it home before he passed out from the fever?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant," I say, emotionless, "I'm not here to talk about Sherlock."

"Aren't you? Well, that is a surprise," he replies, "He said you'd be bursting in here, crying and begging me to tell you all the details so that you could save your precious little genius from dying."

"He?"

"You know who I'm talking about. Don't get coy with me, Fee."

"Moriarty told you to turn yourself in, then. I have to admit, you almost got me there; I wasn't expecting you to coward down and admit to everything."

"I'm not a coward and nobody tells me what to do!" Robert hisses, pointing a finger at me, "This whole mess wasn't even my idea."

"Right, the embezzled million just so happened to be from _your_ company. How unfortunate for you." I reply sarcastically. Robert just rolls his eyes and drops his hand on the table again. He's obviously annoyed by this whole situation, which could be used to my advantage. I lean forward on my elbows and fold my hands together; "Why did you do it?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Seriously, that's your question?" he scoffs, "Good God, haven't you figured it out yet, or did the great Sherlock Holmes forget to mention it? He did hijack into the finance reports, after all. He must have seen it." I don't change my expression, which causes Robert even more annoyance; "My business is going down the drain," he explains, leaning forward so that we are eye to eye, "The family business is failing and it's going to be on my hands. The only way I could get out of it without a scratch was to take what I could and leave: Flee from England, disappear from the radar and all that stuff."

"So you set up a side account," I say, "Even if your company was making a minuscule amount, you could still be making enough to go through with your plan."

"_Our _plan," he says, "Hattie knew all about it and was more than willing to keep a secret. Why do you think we were planning such a small wedding? The plan was to get hitched, take the money, go on our honeymoon and never come back. It was all set and ready to go."

"But Monroe found you out."

"Indeed he did. Jonathan waltzed right into my office and demanded an explanation. I lied, of course, and said I had no idea what was going on, but he wouldn't hear it. He was a problem."

Robert's eyes grow cold as he glances down at his lap. I look up at the clock in the upper right hand corner of the room: four minutes have gone by, six more to go. No time to loose then.

"When did you contact Jim Moriarty?" I ask.

"I didn't." Robert replies, lifting his head to face me again, "She did."

"Hattie?"

"Is there another she I'd be referring too?" he snaps, "I told her that the jig was up, that Monroe had discovered the account and threatened to turn me in. She was pissed at me for thinking that the plan was ruined, said that she wasn't going to let some nosey accountant ruin everything. How she did it, I don't know, but two days later she comes to my flat with this guy dressed in a blue suit. I don't think I need to tell you who he was."

Anyway, he and Hattie had come up with this elaborate plan to set-up Monroe and make sure he's out of the picture for good. All I had to do was execute it and follow their instructions. Hattie had already agreed to carry out the messy bit; She would come by the office for a visit, spark up conversation in the break room with Monroe, and slip the crushed Aspirin into his coffee. That went on for about a week. When the appropriate time came, I called the police and let them discover this false information Moriarty had planted about Monroe.

There of course was a catch to all of this; Moriarty was only helping us because Hattie had agreed to help him get to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't say why, but she was more than happy to oblige. You know she's not a fan of your little boyfriend; she never has been."

"To be honest, I'm not a fan of who she's chosen to spend the rest of her life with either." I slyly reply.

Robert lets out an unimpressed laugh: "Your funny," he taunts, "look at you! Acting like it isn't tearing you apart to know that your BFF stabbed you in the back so that she could get the life she's always wanted. Hattie told Moriarty about you and Sherlock. She was the one whose been sending him all that information about you. Moriarty was the one firing the threats, but Hattie supplied the ammunition."

I suck on my lower lip, but remain stone faced and unmoved. _'He's lying. She wouldn't do this to me.'_ I keep telling myself, but in my heart I knew it to be true. His story made sense; Hattie would've done everything she could to insure the perfect life for her and Robert, even if it meant…God, no, I don't want to think about it!  
"Where is she?" I ask.

"You think I'm going to tell you that?" he hisses in reply, "If she's smart, she'll be long gone by now."

"Gone where?" I demand, clenching my hands into fists.

"You're her best friend-er, at least were-you figure it out." He says, "Besides, it seems like you're the detective now, Elfie, what with Mr. Holmes being…unavailable at that moment."

I glare at him and clench my hands into even tighter fists. Oh what I would give to just sock him the face right now. My anger is building up inside of me; I feel like a volcano ready to erupt, but something is holding me back. It's Sherlock. I know he's not really here, but yet it feels like he's right beside me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. _"Don't go off." he says, "He's not important. Focus on the case."_

I close my eyes for just a moment, picturing the face of my dear consulting detective and imagining what he would do next. He would get up, not utter a single word to Robert and go find Hattie; He wouldn't let his heart rule his decision, he would use his head. But that's where he and I differ, especially in this situation. My heart, my emotions, and my feelings fuel me. I can't just turn them all off like he does.

I'm not Sherlock Holmes.

"Well?" Robert presses, leaning back into his chair, "Are we going to make a deal or not? I gave you all the information you needed now go and talk to your little copper friends and cut me a deal."

I shoot my eyes open and stare at him in amazement: "Not on your life." I hiss. Not even waiting for a reply, I rise up from my chair and storm out of the room. Lestrade calls out my name, but I don't acknowledge it. I need to leave this place and get my head straight. I need to find out where to go from here.

I need Sherlock.

Everything passes by in a blur. I'm lost in a sort of mind palace of my own, one could say. So many thoughts, clues, theories and feelings are just buzzing around in my skull, causing me to loose track of time and ignore the world around me:

"_Hattie contacted Moriarty, why? Not why was she contacting him, but rather why was she __working__ with him?"_

"_Where would she go? If Robert and her had planned this big escape together, would she really just take off without him?"_

_ "What was her gain from all of this?"_

_ "How could she do this to me?"_

_ "I need Sherlock."_

I some how managed to get on and off the tube because before I knew it I was at the front door of 221b Baker Street. I dig out my key from my satchel and stare at the angel keychain for a bit before unlocking the door. My eyes are stinging: tears? Of course it is. My hands are shaking: emotions? Oh God, yes.

I bolt up the stairs, passing a very worried Ms. Hudson, and immediately enter the living room. John is sitting in his chair, rubbing his face in his hands, but lifts his head as soon as he hears me come in. He looks exhausted, both emotionally and physically. It can't have been a good afternoon then.

"How'd it go?" he asks, but I have no intention of answering him. I need one thing right now and John can't give it to me.

"Where is he?" I spit out, dropping my satchel and the coat beside the coat rack, "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's in the bedroom," John replies, noticing the earnest look in my eyes, "His fever spiked back up after you called. I had to put him in the tub just to get it back to a stable temperature."

"Is he awake now?" I ask, hanging up the coat.

"I don't know. He was fine after the bath but then, well, the coughing started up again." John's eyes become incredibly sad and I gulp down my fears of what he might say; no more bad news today, please. "Fee," he goes on, "I was thinking about calling Mycroft, but, to be honest, I don't know how much help he can be now. Sherlock's-He's pretty bad, Fee."

"Define bad." I demand.

John takes in a heavy breath and looks me in the eyes; "He had a sort of episode," he gravely explains, "He was on the couch, claiming that the entire room was spinning and then…then he closed and eyes and…he stopped breathing. I revived him, luckily, but he hasn't' woken up since. Fee, I'm sorry, but this is out of our hands, now."

My heart sinks to my stomach and I grab hold of the doorframe to keep myself upright. He's not saying what I think he is. He can't be. Not John, John can't give up.

"Oh my God," I stammer, taking my best to not faint, "You're saying that he's…John is he going to…"  
Concerned for my sake now, John rises from his chair and places his hands on my shaking shoulders: "Fee, listen to me." He cautiously says in a shaky voice, "Sherlock, he…he wouldn't want you to-We knew this may happen and…Fee, we have to keep a level head about this."

"Like hell, we do John. Sherlock's dying!" I snap pushing his hands away, "Sherlock! Our Sherlock! I...I just need to see him."

"Fee…"

"Just let me be, John!" I finally shout out, "Can't you see that I'm a tad worked up right now? Everything is going to hell and I'm useless! I have to sit off on the sidelines and watch as my world comes crashing down around me! My best friend, who I thought I could trust with my life, has stabbed me in the back by working with that monster!"

"Monster…what are you? Oh my God," John breathes out, eyes growing wide with realization, "Hattie? She did this?"

"With help from everyone's favorite criminal mastermind, yes she did!" I cry, "God I should have seen it coming! She hated Sherlock, always has and she's so damn selfish and unfeeling that-It makes sense that she would strike a deal with Moriarty, you know? She would do anything in the world to get her way and now…now she's the reason my whole world is lying in a bed, coughing up blood and-and-and…Oh for God's sake, he's dying and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it!"

Tears finally start to form in my eyes and run freely down my cheeks. My walls are down and I'm a complete and utter mess. Unable to bare John's reaction-even if it's a comforting one-I run down the hall toward Sherlock's bedroom. Without a second thought, I swing open the door, enter then slam it shut again.

Sherlock is lying on his side in the middle of the bed atop of the sheets. One arm is stretched out toward the door, as if he's reaching out for someone to take his hand, while the other is resting comfortably at his side. His face is not as pale as it was this morning, but rather a sort of sickly grey. The collar of his t-shirt is drenched with sweat as is his mop of dark curls. I can't tell if he's unconscious or just deep asleep because he's so still. He looks absolutely miserable, like every part of him is aching with immense pain.

"Sherlock," I breathe out as I go to his side. I quickly climb into bed next to him and wrap my arms around his frail frame. He doesn't stir, nor even open his eyes. He's completely limp in my arms as I sob onto his shoulder. I feel like I'm a little girl, clinging to her favorite rag doll for comfort and crying for hours on end without any clear sign of stopping. I curl up as close as I can to him and slowly move my hands to rest on his chest. His heartbeat is steady but not as comforting as it usually is. I rest my forehead against his; his skin feels unnaturally clammy and cold, another bad sign.

I'm loosing him; it's a painfully slow process, but it's happening. My greatest fear is coming true; Moriarty has beaten Sherlock and I let it happen. I didn't see the signs and-God; I'm such an idiot.

"What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" I whimper, clutching onto his damp shirt, "This is all falling apart. I thought I could be as strong as you, but I just can't. I'm not like you, not at all. I've failed you and I'm so sorry; so very sorry." Slowly, I lift my head and look deeply at that peaceful, still face of his. That face which mesmerized me from the moment I laid eyes him: still as beautiful as ever.

"You want to know something," I sniffle, gently cupping his face in my hands, "a little over a year ago, after I got my job at the museum, I wanted to move back in with my mother. I was absolutely miserable. My life was so dull that I was convinced that my whole fantasy of finding an adventure in London was just a stupid dream. I felt so alone and unneeded; Yes, I had Hattie but she was off in her own world, living the life.

Then, something happened that changed my mind; it changed my whole life actually. I met you. Sherlock Holmes, you walked into my life with all of your deductions and crazy experiments and…and my heart was sold. Everything about you makes me fall more and more in love with you everyday. I stay because of one reason now. I stay because of you."

I gently begin to message his temples, just like he always wants me too, and nuzzle my forehead against his again. "I've lost so much today, Sherlock," I whisper, "please don't let me loose you too. You promised to never leave me so don't you break that promise now, all right? Stay with me and, please, wake up."

After laying there in silence for countless minutes, waiting in vain for him to respond, I close my eyes and attempt to fall asleep. I'm hoping that today was just some horrible dream that I'll soon wake up from. All I want right now is my problems to melt away in Sherlock's hold; a comfort that only he can give me. Under my shaky breath, I begin to sing _Moon River_ as I wrap my arms around Sherlock's frail torso:

"_Moon River wider than a mile _

_I'm crossing you in style someday _

_Oh dream maker, you heartbreaker _

_Wherever you're going I'm going your way…"_

Maybe he can hear me? Maybe this isn't a lullaby for one?

"_Two drifters off to see the world,_

_There's such a lot of world to see,_

_We're after the same rainbow's end_

_Waiting round the bend_

_My Huckleberry friend_

_Moon…"_

I stop at the last line because I know that I'm only kidding myself. Sherlock can't hear me. Feeling even more depressed, I close my eyes even tighter and press my head against Sherlock's chest. Then, a soft baritone voice finishes the song for me:

"…River and me."

I open my eyes, look up and am filled with such relief to be greeted by the brightest pair of sea foam green eyes, I've ever seen; "Sherlock?" I say, cupping his face in my hands and trying (but failing) not to fall into hysterics, "Can you…are you…Oh my God, I thought I lost you."

Sherlock chuckles weakly and slowly moves his arms to encase me in an embrace. Immediately, I begin to sob again which causes Sherlock to only hold onto me even tighter. Gently and slowly, he rubs his hands up and down my back in a soothing way.

"Shh, it's alright," he whispers into my ear, "I'm here. My darling, darling girl."

"I…I went to the Yard, just like you told me." I cry, "But-God, Sherlock, I don't know what to do."

"Shh, not now." He soothes, "Now, just hold onto me. It's alright."

Without another word, I wrap my arms tightly around his waist and cry myself to sleep, wrapped in my Sherlock's arms.

_**Aw, fluffy stuff.**_

_**Before I go any further, let me make clear that Sherlock isn't completely healed. He is still sick and weak. I'm neither doctor, nor a medical professional in anyway; I'm just going off of the research I've done.**_

_**This story is winding down to an end, but no need to fret. I have more to come :) **_

_**Thanks as always for following and favoriting and commenting.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**I also do not own Henry Mancini's Moon River.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	20. Chapter 20: My Brave Girl

_Chapter 20: My Brave Girl _

I blink my eyes open as the sound of rumbling thunder echoes off the walls of the bedroom. I can only see the grey fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt; ah, that's right I fell asleep beside him. Sherlock is sitting up in bed and has managed to cradle me comfortably in his lap; he has one hand resting on my lower back and the other holding my head in place against his chest. He's awake, I can tell by he. Did he stay awake while I slept? How long did I sleep?

Becoming more awake and aware of my surroundings, I hear the low, whispering voices of Sherlock and John-Actually, its more like quiet mumbling; these two are horrible at whispering. Without making any motion that may bring them to notice that I'm awake, I listen intently to their conversation:

"Sherlock, I don't understand it." John says, "It's…it really is a miracle."

"Miracles don't exist, John." Sherlock replies, sounding very much like his old self, "As a medical professional, you of all people should understand that."

"Then explain it, genius, because it doesn't make any sense to me."

What doesn't? What are they talking about?

Sherlock's chest vibrates as he lets out a soft chuckle: "Perhaps I'm just lucky, John." he replies, placing a kiss on the top of my head, "My dosage of Aspirin wasn't a lethal has the killer had anticipated."

"Luck? You, Sherlock Holmes, are saying that luck is responsible for you getting better?" John says, half surprised and half relived, "You're fever's breaking, you're breathing is back to normal and-In short, mate, you're getting better at an alarming rate."

"Mmm," Sherlock passively grunts, running his fingers through my hair.

"Sherlock are you even listening to me?" John asks, "You're not out of the woods yet."

"I thought you just said I was getting better?"  
"You are. It's just…It doesn't make any sense. Yesterday you were passed out with a fever of 40˚, gagging and coughing up blood, and now, your sitting up in bed acting like everything is fine and dandy."

"I didn't says everything was fine, John. I still feel like utter crap, but just not as dreadful as before. If it's any consolation, I'm still dizzy and those god-awful pills you gave me taste horrible. Besides, if I'm getting better then the whole affair doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? Jesus, Sherlock," John sighs; I can hear that he's on the brink of shouting, "you know I had to revive you this afternoon? You stopped breathing!"

"That would explain the chest pain." Sherlock replies, quiet plainly, "I do hope you didn't try to do mouth-to-mouth."

"Sherlock, it isn't funny! You almost died!" John declares at the top of his lungs, "Do you know what would have happened to Elfie and I if we had lost you? We'd be a wreck, her especially! You know she was on the phone with Moriarty last night? That's how badly she wanted you to get better. She took things into her own hands and risked her life just to find out how to save you. The least you could do right now, is act like you're grateful!"

It's silent between the both of them. I can feel Sherlock's chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh as starts to slowly rub my back. John's hit a soft spot; he's really the only person who's capable of doing that. I have an affect on him, but not like John. Their friendship is stronger than any friendship I've known; they go beyond best friends. They're brothers. If one upsets the other, it's heartbreaking for both of them.

"Sherlock," John sighs after what feels like an entreaty of silence, "I'm…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. It didn't want to wake her."

"No, no, you fine." Sherlock replies, "She's not asleep. She's been awake for a while now. Haven't you, Fee?"

Damn, he knew. Of course he knew.

Sheepishly, I raise my head to look up at Sherlock's smiling face; "You are great at many thinks, my dear Elfie." He says, stroking a stray hair out of my eyes, "Acting isn't one of them."

"Sorry," I say, sitting up straight, "I didn't want to disrupt your…" I stop for a moment and really look at Sherlock. His eyes have that normal shine to them and some color has returned to his cheeks; "How?" I ask, "How do you look so…healthy?"

"Thank the good doctor," Sherlock replies; nudging his head toward John, "His medicine and rather hovering, mother hen type personality have made the healing process begin faster than anticipated."

"Is that your way of saying thank you?" John asks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Of course," Sherlock says, looking at John with a gaze he uses only for him.

The doctor smiles and rolls his eyes: "You give me such a headache."

"I know." Sherlock replies. They both chuckle and just like that their friendship is mended.

I'll never understand their bond.

"What pills did you give him?" I ask John as I situate myself on Sherlock's lap, "I thought you said, you couldn't give him anything because of the Aspirin."

"Activated charcoal tablets," John replies, "I keep a small bottle in my med-kit. To be honest, I never knew what they were for until I looked it up in my old textbooks. Turns out, they are used to override the affects of drug overdoses such as Aspirin poisoning."

"Charcoal? Really?" I ask, raising an eyebrow in confusion "Is that…healthy?"

"I assure you it is," John says with a chuckle, "though it does cause some discomfort and dehydration. Speaking of which, when was the last time you drank water, Sherlock?"  
"Before you stuck me in freezing cold bath water," Sherlock replies, with a hint of annoyance.

"Hey, he was trying to save your life," I say, gently clipping Sherlock on the back of the head, "the least you could say is thank you."

"I just did." Sherlock replies, quickly taking my hands into his, "You didn't have to hit me."

"Maybe you deserved it." I tease, "Sometimes you do." We lock eyes on one another and laugh like we always do. For a moment, things seem to be back to normal. He's my Sherlock and I'm madly in love with him. There's no case, he's not ill and everything is perfect.

I lean forward so that our foreheads touch and place a soft kiss on his eagerly awaiting lips. Seeing this as his sign to leave, John heads toward the door: "Alright, I'm going to get you some water and more pills; it should be about time for you to take them again."

"If I must," Sherlock sighs as our lips part.

"Elfie, tea?" John asks

"If you wouldn't mind." I reply, "Thanks." He nods then exits, pulling the door shut behind him.

"I'm glad your back," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"I never left," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, "just a bit out of it for a moment there. I told you I wouldn't leave you and I have no intention of breaking that promise."

"You were awake weren't you?" I ask, gently twisting my fingers into his curls, "When I came in here and started crying, you heard what I said?"

He nods, "Everything was still a bit hazy, but I heard your manifesto. Do you really think that you've failed me?"

"Well, yes," I say, slightly ashamed, "I went to Scotland Yard and-and…God, Sherlock, it was awful. Robert had turned himself in, messing up my entire game plan and I had no idea what to do."

"Did you get a chance to talk to him?"

"Yes, that was part of the plan Moriarty had…" I freeze as soon as I see Sherlock's eyes go from soft to intense. He's upset, not angry, but deeply, deeply upset. To my surprise, Sherlock takes hold of my shoulders and looks me directly in the eyes. "Sherlock," I say slowly, "I…I only talked to him because-"

"What did he say to you?" he asks, his voice sharp, "The exact words; what did Moriarty say to you?"

"Sherlock, you shouldn't get too worked up." I say, setting my hands on his arms in a comforting way, "I don't want you to wear yourself…"

"Tell me what he said to you." He repeats, but suddenly takes in a sharp breath. He closes his eyes tightly and sets a hand on his forehead, "Damn!" he hisses through his teeth, "Headache…dizzy."

Worried, I slowly get up from his lap and gently push him to lie down. He may sound and look better, but the poison is still in his system. As I adjust the pillow under his head, Sherlock gently takes a hold of my wrist. Our eyes meet: oh, those sea foam eyes. Still as mesmerizing as ever. He needs to know what Moriarty had said. I have to tell him, he has every right to know.

"Moriarty told me that I was replacing you in the game." I say, brushing Sherlock's curls off of his forehead, "He said that because you were ill, he would change the game."

"Change it?" Sherlock asks opening his eyes again, "That doesn't sound like him."

"Yes," I reply, "he said that instead of using me to break you, he'd use me to finish the game. Take your place, as it were."

"He challenged you to be me." Sherlock says, half to himself, "What about the Monroe case? Did he say what his involvement was?"

"Not exactly, no. He told me to go to Scotland Yard, just as you did, and turn in Robert St. Simon. From there, I was supposed to wait until Lestrade had Robert in custody and then question him myself. He said that Robert would give me all the answers I needed."

"And did he?" Sherlock asks, taking my hand into his.

"Robert told me everything: the reason behind the account, the plan he had in play once he had obtained the money and…" I pause and take in a deep breath: the next part is still hard to fathom. "He told me Hattie contacted Moriarty, that she was the one who killed Monroe, and that…that she was the one spying on me for Moriarty."

Seeing the sadness and hurt in my eyes, Sherlock gently cups the side of my face with his left hand and wipes away the access tears with his thumb; "I am sorry," he says, "Truly. It must have been difficult for you to hear the truth." I sniffle and clear my throat; _'No more tears, Fee.'_ I tell myself, _'you've cried enough today.'_

"On the phone, you said that you knew who poisoned you." I say, holding his hand in place, "Did you…did you know it was Hattie? Did you know she was working with Moriarty all along?"

Sherlock nods; "I worked it all out this morning. I had a lucid moment out of my feverish state and took advantage of it: Moriarty wanted to break me and to do that he had to get to the thing I care about the most; that, of course, is you. To get to you, he would need to find someone who knew everything about you and wouldn't cause suspicion. Who better to fill that position, than your best friend? Hattie would help Moriarty in exchange for his assistance in Robert St. Simon's embezzlement scheme."

"Why?" I say, tearing up again, "How could she do this to me? She's-was my best friend in the world. Why would she agree to stab me in the back like this? Why would she try and hurt me?"

"I don't know," He says with a sigh of disappointment, "I wish I could give you the answer, my dear, I really do. But that answer can only be given to you by Ms. Weston herself."

"But I don't know where she is." I cry, "Robert said that she would leave as soon as he turned himself in. Sherlock, I don't know what to do?"

Seeing the hurt and heart break in my expression, Sherlock pulls himself back up in a sitting position and opens his arms to me: "Come here," he whispers and I immediately wrap my arms around him in a tight embrace. I nuzzle my head under his chin and sniffle, unable to produce new tears: "Shh, it's alright." He soothes, rubbing my back, "You're okay. Oh, my darling, darling girl."

I don't sob again, but rather just cuddle up to him as close as I can and let him comfort me. This is what I really need; I need him to be by my side. He's my rock, my world. He is my every thing. I cling onto his t-shirt and place a comforting kiss on his neck.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I whisper, "I didn't mean to let you down."

"Elfie, you haven't let me down." He whispers into my hair, "It took bravery to face Moriarty and to swallow the truth about Hattie. My darling, I am so proud of you. You haven't failed me, you've made me…fall even more in love with you."

Slowly, I lift my head and gaze into those beautiful eyes of his. He gazes back at me and the mood suddenly changes.

The air is tight, but not uncomfortable.

I can hear his heart begin to race along with mine.

Wordlessly, we know exactly what the other is thinking.

Sherlock cups my face in his hands and nuzzles his forehead against mine; "Kiss me." He breathes out and I gladly do so. As our kiss deepens, I can feel his hands hug my waist and pull me in as close as possible to his body. Without really thinking about, I wrap my legs around his torso and kiss him again and again, each time with more passionate and much deeper.

"Sherlock," I breathe out as he moves his kisses down the side of my neck, "you're…you're sick. You're going to…wear yourself…out."

"Nonsense," he whispers, sucking at my earlobe, "Just come here."

I let out a giddy squeal as Sherlock pulls me in to lie down on top of him as he reclines back against the mattress. I open my mouth slightly to invite Sherlock to slip his tongue inside and he gladly does so. His long legs entangle themselves with mine and I cling tightly onto his t-shirt.

"Your shirt is wet," I whisper.

"Maybe you should…take it…off." He sighs, but I'm already way ahead of him. I lift the grey t-shirt up over his head and place a trail of kisses across his bare chest. Sherlock lets out a content sigh and pulls me up to lock lips with him again. Carefully, he moves his hands under my sweater and up my bareback.

"We shouldn't do this." I whisper, "You're not…well enough to…"

"I don't care," He breathes out, blindly moving his hands up and down my back; His touch is soft and gentle.

I close my eyes and suck at his left earlobe; "But…but the case,"

"Not important now." He sighs, removing my sweater, "Just…just…Oh God, I love you."

"I love you too." I say, latching my hands onto the waist of his pajama pants. Just before we go in for another deep kiss, I place a quick finger to his lips. Concerned, Sherlock furrows his forehead in confusion. "I'll lock the door. Be ready when I come back." I whisper giving him a devious smirk. I sprint to the bedroom door and peep my head out just in time to see John heading back toward the bedroom.

"Everything okay?" he asks and I quickly nod.

"Call Lestrade," I whisper, "Tell him…tell him to go to the Marriott Hotel on Oxford Street. Tell him, he needs to pick up a woman named Loraine Stegerson and bring her to Baker Street."

"Your mum?" he asks, shocked, "Why on Earth do you want her back here?"

"If there's one person who Hattie might turn to in a crisis, it's my mother." I reply, "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Of course, but what are you…" John then stops himself as he notices my missing shirt. "Ah, he's well enough for that is he?" he teases.

"Shut up," I reply, quickly closing the door and turning the lock. I turn back around on my heel and head back to bed, quickly removing my black slacks in the process.

"You're taking too long." Sherlock grumbles, reaching out and grabbing my waist. He pulls me back onto of him and places a deep kiss on my lips. I entangle my legs with his as I maneuver my hands to the waistline of his flannel pants.

"Turn out the light," I whisper in his ear. Sherlock reaches out his hand and flicks of the bedside lamp, giving us complete darkness and intimacy.

The storm outside intensifies and the rain echoes through out the flat. It's cold, but neither of us really notices it. Sherlock and I just move our bodies under the protection of the sheets and enclose our selves with each other.

There is nothing else in the world, right now.

There is just he and I: just us.

My Sherlock Holmes and I.

_**Well, I didn't expect to write that but it happened. Is it because I have another plot twist coming? Maybe? XD**_

_**Okay so I must be honest and say that all of your guys' responses have been truly amazing and touching. (Cyrstalskies14, you legitimately made me tear up. Thank you.) For those who have followed from the beginning thank you for sticking around and continuing your support. Look at all those follows, holy cow!**_

_**Thank you, thank you, and thank you.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	21. Chapter 21: Facing Demons

_Chapter 21: Facing Demons_

"It's too easy. Something must be out of place, something just doesn't seem right about all this."

As I step out of shower, I immediately hear Sherlock's ranting. Ah, he most definitely is back to being himself. As I walk down the hall from the bathroom, I slip on my black sweatpants and listen:

"Sherlock, there is nothing out of place. Just relax."

"Relax? John, I really don't understand it."

"What?"

"How can you function properly with such a simple brain? Honestly, John, it baffles me."

Yeah, he's definitely back to being old Sherlock.

I pull my grey sweatshirt up over my head and peer around the corner to see Sherlock pacing back and forth in front of the front room window, his red bathrobe whisking up behind him like a cape. John is sitting quietly in his chair, half reading his paper and half making sure the consulting detective doesn't wear himself out. It's an odd scene for anyone who doesn't know these two, but to me this is perfectly normal.

"Sherlock, your girlfriend has a plan, why not just go with it?" John says, flipping the pages of his paper, "I highly doubt she's making a foolish decision bringing her mother into this."

"You only met the woman for a few moments, John." Sherlock says, "She's...aggravating, manipulative, self-centered. I could go on."

"You only talked to the woman for about 5 minutes," John counter points, "How could you have possibly made all those assumptions?"

"Because I'm me," Sherlock replies rather matter of factly.

Chuckling at their banter, I decide to enter the living room fully. Sherlock sees me out of the corner of his eye and immediately bolts over to take my hands into his: "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, "Because I know how difficult it is for you to speak with your mother."

"Honey, I'll be fine." I say, smiling at his genuine concern, "She's a pain, but nothing I can't handle."

"You see," John adds in, "She's fine. You're the one who panicking."

"I'm not panicking, John. I'm…concerned." Sherlock replies, going back to his pacing, "Elfie's mother could not know anything at all. This could be a waste of time as well as an unnecessary nuisance bringing her here."

"Do you have another idea?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest, "Because if you do, please share it." Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and runs his hands through his mop of curls. John and I exchange a glance of annoyance; he doesn't have an idea, he just feels the need to micromanage everything.

"Shouldn't you be in bed instead of nit picking every aspect of Fee's plan?" John asks, facing Sherlock again, "You shouldn't rush your recovery."

"I'm not rushing anything, John, I'm fine," Sherlock replies, stopping to look out the window, "and besides I've been lying in bed all day. I need to get my body in motion. I was beginning to ache."

"You were doing a bit more than just lying in bed awhile ago," John teases, "or at least it sounded like you were." My cheeks turn a bright red and playfully hit John in the arm, "Hey, I'm just making a statement," he chuckles, "Not my fault you two decided to have a little romantic rendezvous and be all loud about it."

"Shut up." Sherlock hisses, clenching up his fists, "It's none of your business, John." Rolling my eyes, I join Sherlock at the window, wrapping my arms around his waist and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. He gets so defensive when he's embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, relaxing his body in my hold.

"I know and I appreciate your concern, love, I really do." I whisper in his ear, "But you have to trust me on this. I know what I'm doing."

"I know you do," He softly replies, tangling his hands in mind, "It's only…there are other ways of finding Hattie, that is if she has in fact left London."

"I know, Sherlock, but this is the fastest way. Plus, I have to face her at some point."

"Hattie or your mother?"

"Both."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and turns his head to look at me. A small, proud smile grows across his face: "Look at you." He says, "My darling historian turned into a clever detective. I always told you your mind would be put to better use in the real world, not at a museum."

"Hey, I like my job," I say with a smirk, "But I won't lie; this whole solving a case thing...I kind of like it."

"Stop while your ahead," John adds in, not looking up from his paper. Both Sherlock and I chuckle then look one another in the eyes. Slowly, Sherlock wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace and kisses the top of my head.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asks into my hair.

"Yes, Sherlock," I reply with a playful roll of my eyes: he can be so over protective sometimes.

"Good, because they're pulling up now." He says. I lift my head from Sherlock's chest and look out the window. Sure enough, a police car has parked along the parallel curb of 221b Baker Street. Stepping out from the driver's side is Detective Inspector Lestrade, looking extremely agitated and frustrated.

Yeah, he's definitely picked up my mother then.

He goes to the passenger side and opens the door. Like an old movie star queen, my mother steps out and-even though we can't hear her-starts to scream about how dreadful the weather is.

"Lestrade looks distressed." Sherlock comments, gingerly pulling the curtain back so that we can get a better look.

"Can you blame him? He just had to ride in a car with my mother." I reply.

"Right, well, I'm going to make tea." John says, quickly getting up from his chair.

"Don't you dare go hiding in the kitchen," Sherlock says with a stern look, "You have to go through this too."

"She's not my in-law, Sherlock, she's yours." John smartly replies, closing the sliding doors, "I'll be back in a moment."

"In-law?" Sherlock asks, looking at me confused. "But we're not married."

"He meant it just as an expression, dear," I chuckle, "Trust me, I wouldn't make you go through the hell of having my mother as an in-law." I place a kiss on the baffled detective's cheek and head to the door to "welcome" my mother. Suddenly, Sherlock takes a hold of my hand and utters the most interesting thing I think I've ever heard him say:

"What if I'd like you to?"

I freeze in the arch of the doorway and turn around on my heel. I furrow my brow at him, confused and shocked by what he might be implying. Sherlock's face is soft and caring as he steps closer to me; His eyes are sparkling and gazing deeply into my own.

"What…what do you mean?" I ask, a bit taken back.

"I mean" Sherlock says; now so close to me that our toes are touching, "I'd be willing to take that risk of having your mother as an in-law. That is if you would have me."

"Are you-what are you trying to say?" I say, gulping my nerves down.

"What do you think?" Sherlock whispers, softly taking my wrists into his hands. He pulls me back into the room with him and nuzzles his forehead against mine; "Think."

I open and close my mouth trying to formulate the right thing to say. Is he asking-no, no way! I mean, I wouldn't say no, but…is he really asking me for my hand in…Seriously?

We had always assumed that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together but we've never discussed marriage. I didn't think it would be something he would want to go through and, to be honest, I didn't think I would want to go through it either. Of course, I love him more than anything and I'd do anything he'd ask me too. But at this moment, I don't know how I feel. Am I ready for marriage? Is now the right time to be married? Is now even the right time for him to be asking?

Is he asking?

"Well?" Sherlock whispers, breaking my train of thought.

"Well what?" is all I can muster to reply.

"What do you think I'm trying to say?"

I look into his eyes, as if to find the answer in those perfect orbs; Oh God, he is asking.

Before I can muster a reply, we hear the street door open and immediately my mother's voice is bounding off of the walls:

"You haven't fully explained to me what's going on, officer! Why on earth did you see the need to drag me out of my hotel room and bring me here? Is there something wrong with my daughter? Oh my good Lord, was it that man? That…Holmes individual! I swear to God if he has laid a finger on Elfie, I'm going to make him dread the day he was born!"

"I can assure you, ma'am," Lestrade replies, wearily, as he reaches our door, "Sherlock Holmes has done nothing to your daughter. Now, if you will just come up these…"

"I will come up in my own time, officer!" she snaps back, "I don't need a police escort to walk up a flight of stairs."

"Bloody hell, this woman." Lestrade says to himself as he shakes his head. He then looks at Sherlock and I, standing the middle of room with hands still intertwined. "You look like you've been through hell and back," He says, nudging his head to Sherlock.

"I'm on the mend," Sherlock replies, snapping back into his normal self and taking a seat in his arm chair, "John's putting the kettle on. Care to stay, detective inspector?"

"I was hoping to drop her off and leave," Lestrade whispers, "Who is she?"

"Unfortunately, my mother." I reply, coming to my senses, "Thanks for putting up with her."

"Your mother? Then, my apologies Ms. Stegerson," he says, a bit ashamed,

"Because she's her mother or because of what you just said?" Sherlock asks with a smart-alecky smirk.

"Um, can I say both?" Lestrade says. I laugh and take a seat on the armrest of Sherlock's chair. He gently sets a hand on thigh and taps a light beat with his fingers. Our eyes meet for a moment and I can see that our previous conversation has ended just as fast as it had began. Phew!

Just then the stomping of my mother's heels becomes louder and ceases at our door: "Honestly," She exasperates to herself as she enters the living room, "a police officer bursting into my hotel room, demanding I come with him to my daughter's apartment! I have never heard of anything more ridiculous!"

"Hello to you too, Mom." I say. My mother whips off her Channel shades (really? She's wearing sunglasses in the rain?) And glares at Sherlock.

"You." She hisses, pointing an accusing finger at him, "Do you know what I was doing before you had this idiot officer come pick me up?"

"Oi, you watch it miss." Lestrade warns, "You're in my city right now and I do not tolerate…"

"Oh please, I'm no threat." She snaps, turning her cold expression to Lestrade, "Anyway, you've done your job. You've brought me here and now you can leave."

"Mom," I say, "please he was only…"

"Lestrade, would you mind waiting downstairs?" Sherlock interrupts, placing his hands under his chin in his signature way, "You're obviously agitated. A bit of fresh air will do you good." Lestrade looks to Sherlock as if to sub-consciously ask if he was sure about that. Sherlock nods to him and the detective inspector takes his leave.

"Now, Ms. Stegerson, you were saying?" Sherlock says, " And please, do have a seat."

"I don't want to have a seat." My mother snaps, "I want to know why you had a police officer burst into my hotel room while I was in the middle of a business meeting and drag me to this place? Did you have an itch to pry into my personal life again?"

"Mom, Sherlock didn't call Lestrade I did." I say, adding in my say before she starts accusing Sherlock of anything else, "well, John did, but it was me that asked him too."

"Elfie Marie, what on Earth for?" she asks, placing a hand on her chest in shock, "How could you do such a thing?"

"Mom, your acting like he cuffed you and dragged you here." I say with a roll of my eyes.

"Alright, I may have been over reacting right now," she admits, "But that doesn't take away from the fact you had a police officer bring me here. Honestly, Elfie, if you wanted to talk to me you could have phoned."

"I couldn't have," I reply, "I needed to talk to you in person and…and I've had an eventful afternoon."

"As did you, Ms. Stegerson," Sherlock adds in. We both look at him in confusion, but I quickly understand. He noticed something, deduced some small, yet crucial, detail like he always does. I look back at my mom and watch in wonder: What did he see?

"Did you now?" My mother asks sarcastically, "So busy that you couldn't have managed a simple phone call?"

"Please, take a seat." Sherlock says, "John should be out with tea in just a moment." And as if on cue, John reenters the living room. He looks at us and then at my mother.

"Oh, um, hello again." He says with a polite wave, "Would you, uh, like some tea?"

"Ah, the polite doctor," my mother says, reluctantly sitting down in the chair opposite from Sherlock and I, "the kinder of my daughter's two new roommates. Tea would be wonderful, Doctor." John nods and scurries back into the kitchen; Good Lord, is the brave army doctor scared of my mother? Then again, I can't really blame him.

"So, tell me. Is this an interrogation?" she asks, addressing me, "Who's the good cop and the bad cop, Fee?"

"Mom, please," I say, "this is actually really serious."

"And so it is, but you've failed to tell me what is going on."

I take in a deep breath and roll my shoulders back: _'Okay, Elfie, here we go. Just like when you were talking with Robert. Keep absolutely calm.'_ Sherlock gently starts to rub his hand up and down my back as if to tell me that it's going to be all right. I take in another breath and begin:

"Mom, did you happen to see Hattie this afternoon?"

"I did, in fact," she replies, sitting up straight, "Why? Is everything alright between you two?"

"Well, no, not really. Not at all." I say, gulping down my emotions, "She…she's done something wrong, horribly wrong." I quickly look down to the floor to hide my on-coming tears.

God, this is actually harder then I thought it was going to be.

"Tell me, sweet heart," my mother says, leaning forward, "What's happened?"

Seeing my difficulty in speaking on this topic, Sherlock speaks for me: "Hattie Weston participated in the murder and set-up of Jonathan Monroe, a former accountant for her fiancé Robert St. Simon. Its actually more accurate to say that she was the one who initiated it."

"Oh good God," my mother breathes out, "are you…are you certain?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock goes on, "I had investigated the matter myself and although it was Robert St. Simon who had committed the initial crime of embezzlement, it was Ms. Weston who is responsible for the accountant's murder."

I listen intently as Sherlock explains, in detail, this whole mess to my mother. I just stare at her face, hoping that I can pick up some sort of a comforting, motherly reaction. It's no surprise really when she clearly doesn't give me one. I can see the hurt in her eyes, but it's not for me it's for herself. She's upset because her favorite daughter turned out not to be so perfect after all. She doesn't care that I'm hurt. She doesn't care that I've lost my best friend. She doesn't care about me.

"Hattie would never poison someone," she says once Sherlock is done, "She's…She doesn't have it in her to kill. She won't even swat a fly."

"People do crazy things when they're in love, Ms. Stegerson," Sherlock says, "Ms. Weston believed that her chance at happiness with Robert St. Simon was in jeopardy so she did everything in her power to keep that happiness from fading."

"But…murder?" she asks, "That's just…not her."

"Oh for God sake, Mom, she did it!" I suddenly exclaim, taking both Sherlock and my mother by surprise, "Don't you see? Your dream child isn't so perfect after all!"

"I…I don't know what you mean, sweet heart."

"Don't! Just don't give me that crap right now! You've always favored her over me, ever since I introduced her to you."

"That's not…"

"And you can't bear to hear that she stabbed me in the back; not because she's my best friend, but because she's not the person you thought she was. Well, guess what mom? It hurt me too! It hurt me to find out that Hattie would call a consulting criminal to help solve her and Robert's problem. It hurt me to learn that she would stoop that low. Sherlock didn't even tell you the real kicker of all this."

I look to Sherlock, who is just looking at me stone faced: "Shall I say it then?" I go on, "Fine! Hattie tried to kill Sherlock! Poisoned him just like Monroe!"

My mother looks to Sherlock in shock and then back at me: "But…Hattie…" she begins but I cut her off again.

"Hattie was acting on her own terms and didn't give a damn about anyone else besides herself!" I shout, "Sound familiar, Mom? Maybe she really is the daughter you always wanted. The self-centered woman who doesn't care about those around her; she only cares about herself and doesn't give any thought in the world to the one person who maybe once looked up to her." I catch myself before I could go any further. I just compared my mother to a murder. Even I know that that is too low.

Suddenly unable to sit through any more this, I rise from my spot and exit to the bedroom. I sit down on the bed and rest my back against the headrest. Afraid that I'm about break out into tears, I pull my knees up to my face and rest my forehead against them.

I shouldn't have brought her into this. Sherlock was right; I can't handle her and she doesn't know anything. She just lives in her fantasy world where Hattie is perfect and could do no wrong. If Hattie did come to her for help, my mother would have gladly obliged.

"Elfie,"

I hear a voice from the archway and I slowly raise my head to look and see my mother standing there. She looks as if the world has just ended; Of course, her fantasy has just been shaken.

"Just go." I say, looking straight ahead and resting my chin on my knees, "I've said what I needed to say."

"I doubt you had a police man bring me here just to tell me what a horrible mother I am," she says, taking seat on the edge of the mattress. I don't acknowledge her; I just stare forward.

"She's at the apartment." She says and I snap my head to look at her.

"What?"

"Hattie is at your guys' apartment, packing." She explains, "She came by my hotel room; crying and begging for my help. She told me the whole story-the money, the dead accountant, even about this James Moriarty. She asked me for some money, but I told her that I had none to give. I lied of course, but I wasn't about to help a fugitive, no matter who they were."

"You…you knew?" I ask, becoming tense, "And yet you were still in denial just now?"

"Because you were right," she goes on, "I didn't want to believe it. I still don't." To my surprise, my mother rests a soft hand on my cheek. I don't pull away. I just listen to her. "Hattie was someone who reminded me of myself, or rather the girl I wanted to be." she admits, her voice becoming shaky, "I was relieving my youth through her in a way, that's true, but she was never my daughter. You, Elfie Marie, are my daughter. You have become a woman that I could never dream of being. You have a wonderful job and someone who loves you with so much of his heart. I always wanted the perfect life for you, but I never thought it was going to be this life. You have made me so proud and…and I am deeply sorry that I wasn't there to help you along the way."

I gulp down my emotions and blink my eyes to keep them from watering. She's being honest. This woman, the person who raised me and was so absorbed with work is apologizing. Has she finally noticed me? Does she finally see that I am who I've always to be? And she's accepting of that?

"M-mom," I say, "I…I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"Elfie Marie, you never were an apologetic child, don't start now." She says with a smile. We both chuckle and for the first time in my life, I can see eye to eye with my mother. "Now, go." She says, cupping my face in her hands, "Hattie should be almost done packing by now. She said that she was catching a 9:45pm flight to San Francisco."

"Th-thank you." I say to her and for the first time, we genuinely embrace: just like a mother and daughter should. When we part, I quickly jump out of bed and bolt to the door.

"And Elfie Marie," my mother says, standing up and readjusting her skirt. I freeze and turn around to look at her, "That Sherlock of yours, he's…he's perfect for you."

I give her a nod and quickly bolt back to the living room.

_**Phew, that took awhile!**_

_**Hope you all enjoyed that chapter. I wanted to get it up before the weekend because I have a crazy next few days planed. I wanted to have some sort of closure with Elfie and her mom, but at the same time not have the basic 'hug-and-everything's-okay' kind of resolution.**_

_**And did Sherlock propose? In a way…**_

_**Will I bring it up again? Maybe… :)**_

_**Thanks as always and please, if you haven't already, check out the prequel I posted. I have ideas for the next segment, but I want to know if you guys would be interested.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks!**_


	22. Chapter 22: Confrontation

_Chapter 22: Confrontation_

The sky is dark and grey.

Rain streaks down the car windows.

Am I really going to do this? Is this really going to happen?

Lost in my own deep thoughts, I rest my forehead against the cold window and stare at the bustling world passing by. Lestrade is driving me to my old apartment where I would get out, head to the fourth floor, open my door and finally confront the woman I had known to be my best friend. That was the plan, anyway. Sherlock had come up with it, obviously, but he also said that I should go alone. I really wish he hadn't.

"_Sherlock, I-I can't do this." _I had said,_ "Can't you or John go with me?"_

"_I'm not strong enough yet and if John shows up at the apartment with you, Hattie may panic and run." _He said, taking my hands in his,_ "By showing up there alone, she'll think you're there just to pick up your things and bring them over here. She still thinks you're in the dark about all this, use it to your advantage."_

"_But…what if I can't? I'm not you."_

"_Try to be."_

Thunder can be heard rumbling outside the car and I begin to tap a nervous beat on my thigh. We're going to be there soon, and I can feel the knot tensing up in my stomach. Doubts begin to fly through my mind: What if she knows I'm coming? What if she's bolted already? God, what am I doing? I don't even know if Hattie's still there. This could be a disaster.

"I've got officers on stand by at Heathrow, in case Ms. Weston's tries to catch an earlier flight out of England." Lestrade says, finally breaking the silence between us.

"Good." I reply, but I'm not really paying attention to him. My mind is too full of thoughts about what I'm going to say to Hattie: How does one confront their best friend on matters such as these? I can't just say 'Hey, I know you were part of this whole Monroe mess. Come with me to the police.'

"Are you sure that you don't want me to come up there with you?" he asks, sounding genuinely worried, "You don't know if she's armed herself or if Moriarty has her guarded."

"I don't know if she's even going to be there," I quip back, "I have no idea what is going to happen and…" I stop myself and take in a deep breath, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped, Detective Inspector."

"No, no, it's alright." He says, very calm and collected, "And please, you don't have to address me as Detective Inspector. You're part of the team; you can call me Greg."

"Greg." I say, "I…I didn't know that was your first name."

"Huh, you're like your boyfriend." He says with a chuckle, "I've known Sherlock for five years now and he just found out my first name a few months ago."

I chuckle slightly: Really, Sherlock? You couldn't be bothered to find out the man's name? Too involved with the work, probably.

"Um, what did you mean by 'the team'?" I ask

"You know, Sherlock and Dr. Watson and, now, you." He explains, "You guys make a proper trio, if you ask me."

"I guess," I say, turning back to the window, "I don't know what I bring to it all though."

"Well it must be something important if Sherlock trusts you enough to handle this by yourself. Not to mention sending you down to the yard and interviewing Robert St. Simon. That was impressive, by the way. You could teach my officers a thing or two about staying calm in an interrogation."

I blush slightly and run a hand through my hair: "I was just copying what I've seen Sherlock do." I sheepishly reply, "It's nothing special."

"Maybe something stuck," he says, "You have a knack for these types of things, I can tell. I understand why Sherlock loves you; you're just like him. You're Sherlock's girl."

I blush even redder and bite my lower lip. That seems to be a recurring theme now: I'm just like Sherlock. I don't see it, myself, but apparently everyone else does, including Sherlock. How can that be? I'm just a historian from Orange County, California who got swept up into the world of London crime fighting because I fell in love. I fell in love with the thrill of the chase, the need to find clues in the most obscure places, the obscurity of the crime and how it was going to be solved. Above all, though, I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.

I fell in love with a man who opened a whole new world to me. A world that was not only dangerous and a bit confusing at times, but also adventurous and wonderful. Perhaps that's changed me. Perhaps I'm not just a historian anymore. I'm, as so many people like to put it, Sherlock's girl.

And I don't ever want to be anything else but that.

"Is this the place?" Lestrade (Greg) asks, pulling up along the curb. I snap out of my content thoughts and look at the building we've stopped in front of.

"Yes, this is it." I sigh heavily. I take hold of the door handle and take a deep breath: This is it. Here we go.

"Elfie, last time: Are you sure you want do this alone?" he asks.

"I can do this." I say, half to myself. I open the car door and step out into the stormy London air. I turn back for a moment and poke my head back inside the car: "Thank you, Greg."

"You're very welcome," he says with a nod, "Text me when you're bringing Ms. Weston down. I'm going to drive around the block until then, and meet you back here. It'll be short and simple: no cuffs or flashing lights."

I nod to show that I agree, and then shut the car door. Slowly, I turn back around and enter the building just as the storm begins to pick up. Keeping focused and trying my best to seem calm and natural, I enter the lift and head up my old floor. My heart is racing as I lean back against the cold, silver back wall. _'I can do this, I can do this,'_ I tell myself, _'Don't be afraid.'_

_Ding!_

The lift arrives at the floor much quicker then I had wanted it too. The silver doors glide open and I step out. The hall way seems like a never-ending passageway of doors, like something out of _Alice in Wonderland_. I feel nauseous. Nerves? Of course it is.

I walk to the front door and pause before I dig out my old key and enter. This use to be my home, so why am I acting like this is a whole new world to me? I gulp down my fears and dig into my grey coat pocket for my key. Before I can even pull it out, the door swings open.

No going back now.

"Fee! Oh my God, I was hoping it was you!" Hattie exclaims, embracing me in a huge hug, "I heard someone in the hall, I was afraid it was the police."

"The police?" I ask, surprised, "Why would it be the police?"

"Come in, come in, I'll explain everything." She says, ushering me inside the apartment and slamming the door shut behind me. Everything seems to be normal, I immediately notice two pink suitcases stationed on top of the couch: one is open and about halfway full of clothes. I must have just caught her at the end of her packing.

"What's going on?" I ask, trying not to sound suspicious, "Packing for the honeymoon already?"

"I only wish that was the case," she says, "Oh God, Fee, I wanted to apologize for last night. I was going to call you but…things got out of hand."

"I was going to call you as well," I say, acting like nothing is wrong, "but I thought I'd come down in person. I have some stuff to take back to Baker Street anyway. Just tell me what happened."

"You won't believe me if I did."

"Try me."

She looks at me with a quivering lower lip. Her eyes are red from crying and her hair is all a mess. If I didn't know the truth, I would've bought her act. The lime green sweat pants and oversized grey sweater was a nice touch. The important thing is she's acting like herself. She has no idea that I know.

"Fee, the…the wedding. It's off!" she cries. I want to say 'I know, it's because your fiancé is locked up at Scotland Yard', but I continue to play the clueless best friend part.

"What?" I ask, "What happened?"

"So much, so very much." She exasperates, "It's this whole Monroe business. The police…they-they arrested Robert! Sherlock was right! Robert was working with Moriarty and…and they killed that poor accountant. The cops were waiting for him when we got home after dinner. It was so awful! How could he do this to me?" She wraps her arms around me and sobs onto my shoulder.

It's a lie, all of it. Of course it is.

Inside I'm screaming with anger; does she really expect me to believe this crap? On the outside, however, I'm calm. This isn't the time to tell her what I know. I'll know it when it comes. It baffles me though that both of her and Robert has pulled the rug out from each other. They are not Bonnie and Clyde, taking the bullets together. They are both willing to see the other crash and burn. How…romantic.

"Oh God, Hattie." I say giving her a tight squeeze, "Girl, I'm so sorry."

"I should have known he'd do something stupid," she goes on, "I always fall head over heels for the wrong guys."

"But, what's with the bags? Are you leaving?" I ask, pulling away slightly so that we can speak face to face.

"I-I need to get away for a few days," Hattie sniffles, "Just to clear my head. I don't have someone here…like you do. We can't all have a Sherlock. You always were the lucky one between us, Fee."

"You're talking like we're never going to see each other again," I say with a chuckle. Hattie just gives me a small smile and whips her eyes on her sleeves.

"Good, I'm so rude." She says, heading to the kitchen, "Have a seat, get comfortable. I just made coffee, want some?"

"Um, yes please, I…I had a long night." I say, sitting down beside the suitcases. I take a quick look inside the open one. It's all of her clothes: she must be preparing for her flight, obviously.

"Ooo, long night with Sherlock?" she teases, reentering the living room with my cup. It kind of hurts to hear her talk like nothing is wrong, but I have to play along. I'll break it at the opportune moment.

"Um, not in the way you're thinking." I say, taking the cup from her, "He…he was sick."

"Oh, poor thing. He seemed alright during dinner," she says as she heads back to the kitchen, pretending to be genuinely concerned about Sherlock, "You don't mind if I keep packing do you?"

"No, not at all." I say, preparing to take a sip from my cup. I stop myself; if Hattie meant to poison me and not Sherlock, why wouldn't she try to do that again now? Gingerly, I set my mug down on the coffee table, "where are you planning on going?" I ask her.

"Back home," she calls back, "but that's not important. Is Sherlock okay?"

My ears perk up at the sound of an unfamiliar tone in Hattie's voice; "Um, I think so. John's looking after him right now," I say, "He started filling ill after dinner, when we were walking home."

"Oh no, food poisoning?" Hattie asks, shouting from the hall.

"No, no, definitely not food poisoning." I reply, "No, it's looking more like…" I pause when I hear a small clicking sound directly at the back of my head. It's not an unfamiliar sound, but it's not a comforting one.

"Fee. Get up." Hattie says, her voice dark and stern. I slowly rise from the sofa and turn around to face her. Hattie is standing directly behind the sofa, holding a jet-black handgun in her shaking hands. It's pointed right at me.

So this is the opportune moment.

I slowly raise my hands up in defense: "Hattie, what are-"

"Let's stop playing the dumb game, Elfie." She hisses, "I know you know everything."

"How…"

"You didn't take my bait. I expected you to freak out when I brought up Moriarty just now, but you didn't even panic. You always were a horrible liar, Elfie. So spill: What do you know?"

I take in a deep breath and gulp down my nerves: "All of it," I say, "Robert's failing company, the account, how you were the one who contacted Moriarty…and that it was you who killed Monroe."

"That was on accident!" Hattie suddenly screams, "The plan was to just keep him out of the picture long enough for Bobby and I to get away. Moriarty promised me that!"

"And you believed him? Hattie you couldn't…"

"Have what? Been that stupid? HA! That was the whole game; don't you see? Moriarty knew that the police wouldn't suspect me: Robert St. Simon's blonde, cutie, fiancé who only dreams of a fairytale ending. It was easy for me to hide from the cops, and Robert already had enough money from the account so everything was set to go. Until that stupid cop referred your boyfriend to the case."

"I find it hard to believe this is entirely Sherlock's fault." I say, trying to stay calm.

"It is his fault! Just as much as it is yours!" she says, shaking the gun at me, "We would have gotten away with this whole scheme if the great Sherlock Holmes hadn't gotten involved. I told Robert that he was going to cause problems, but he assured me that everything was under control. The idiot had no idea what Sherlock was capable of. He was stunned when he found records of the account."

"Is that why you poisoned Sherlock instead of me?" I ask, pushing back my tears, "He was getting too involved so you needed to silence him, just you silenced Monroe."

"Don't be so dramatic. I laced Sherlock's glass to keep him out of the picture, yes, but Moriarty was furious. He wanted you dead, not Sherlock. That was part of the whole bargain."

"So…you were going to kill me?"

"I spared you, Elfie, don't you see? I got you some extra time. I thought you and Doctor Watson would be to busy tending to Sherlock that you'd forget all about the Monroe ordeal. Turns out I was wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Moriarty called last night: said that you were going to be playing consulting detective now. Robert panicked and turned himself in; big baby couldn't handle the pressure anymore. I was going to take the money and run, but Moriarty had a different plan. He'd make sure I'd be safe from the police under one condition: take you out."

"And thus, you're pointing a gun at me. Just to get your reward." I say, my voice shaking in fear and hurt, "I…I never thought you'd stoop that low."

"I'm not stooping low, I'm surviving." She says with an icy sting, "I'm leaving this country and starting over with the finances Robert had stolen. The sad part about it, though, is that I wanted to take you with me. But no, you had to go off and pretend to be strong for your boyfriend."

"I'm…not pretending."

"Oh yeah? Then what's with the stuttering and the tears?" Hattie taunts, "Couldn't stand to here the news that your BFF was a working for the so-called enemy? Jesus, Elfie, don't you see the problem here: It's Sherlock! He's pulled you away from what matters most. You and I were going to travel the world together: best friends for life. But no, you decided to fall in love. That freak of yours has changed you."

"Maybe it's for the better." I hiss in reply, "I could've ended up like you: giving up everything and following orders from a maniac."

"If Moriarty's such a maniac, then why is he the one who's thriving and not Sherlock? Your boyfriend is lying in a bed, dying, because he stuck his nose in matters that didn't concern him. Soon the great Sherlock Holmes will be out the way and not even you, Elfie Stegerson, will be able to do anything to stop Moriarty."

Hattie clicks the safety off of the gun and motions to the balcony with it: "Get out there." She hisses, "It'll make things easier. I don't want to try and hide the blood stains on the carpet." I reluctantly obey. I'm too afraid and shocked to even think straight. Part of me wants to tackle her and beat her senseless, while the other half of me realizes that if I do that, there is a risk the gun will go off and hit either one of us.

Come on, Elfie think!

I slide the glass door open and step out into the freezing cold rain. Hattie follows me and we stand parallel to one another. "Take out your phone." She demands, holding out a hand, "Give it to me."

I dig my phone out of my right coat pocket and she readily takes it. She then holds the gun to my forehead. "You know, I didn't want to do this," she says, "I looked to you like a sister. But this has to be done."

Just then, we both hear the front door click open. Hattie immediately spins around and points the gun at the intruder, but there is none to be found. The door is shut and there is no sign of movement in the apartment. But the door definitely opened: I heard it.

"Who was that?" Hattie demands, pointing the gun back at me, "Tell me!"

"I…I didn't see anything!" I say, "Honest."

"Liar! Who was that?"

"I don't know!"

"Tell me!"

Suddenly there is a blur of black that runs out onto the balcony, tackling Hattie to the ground. The gun is fired, but I duck quickly enough so that the bullet only grazes my shoulder. The pain is unbelievable though, like a thousand sharp stings just running down my arm. I quickly grab my shoulder and huddle down to the ground in pain.

"There out here! He's got her!" a voice yells out from inside the apartment. I turn my head to see Greg Lestrade run out onto the balcony and immediately pull Hattie off of the dark figure.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH! LET ME GO! YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!" she screams as Lestrade pulls her arms behind her back and cuffs her.

"Alright, shut it. Lets go!" he hisses at her. Hattie struggles for a bit but then turns her gaze to me.

"Fee! You've got to help me," she begs, "Please, I told you, you were my sister. Help me out." I only give her a stone cold glare and shake my head. Without another word, Lestrade takes off of the balcony. I close my eyes and allow my tears to just fall. I don't sob, or let out any sound of crying. I feel more relieved then upset, right now. It's over.

Just then, another pair of footsteps enters onto the balcony. I open my eyes to see…John? How did John get here and so fast?

"Fee? Are you okay?" he says, running over to me and quickly snapping into doctor mode.

"John," I breath out, "You're…you're here! How?"

"Let me see your shoulder first," he says, taking my hand into his and gently removing it from my shoulder, "Just a scratch." He says, "you won't need stitches but I'll need to clean it up as soon as possible."

"John, how did you get here?" I demand, desperately wanting some answers, "And how did you and Lestrade know to come in?"

"Ask your guardian angel," John says with a smirk, nudging his head over his shoulder. I look over to see my mysterious savior, sitting up against the glass door. He's pale and he's panting rather heavily. The collar of his black coat is turned up against his sharp cheeks. His eyes are slowly closing as if he were about to pass out.

"Sherlock," I breathe out. I quickly run to his side, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. I kneel beside him and cup his face in my hands just as his head slumps foreword onto his chest. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" I call out; lifting his face so that we are eye-to-eye, "Don't pass out on me, love! Sherlock, stay with me!"

"Stop shouting," he breathes out, scrunching his face in discomfort, "'m fine." I let out a sigh of relief as he blinks open his eyes. A small smile grows across his face as our gazes lock: "Hello you." He says.

"Hello," I say with a chuckle, "you crazy bastard." He lets out a deep baritone chuckle and gently brushes a few wet strands of hair out of my eyes.

"Come here," he coaxes, hooking his hand around the back of my neck. To my surprise, Sherlock pulls my head forward and places a deep kiss on my lips. I gladly return the gesture, clinging to the collar of his coat.

"Thank you," I whisper when our lips finally part.

"For saving your life just now, or the kiss?" he teases, kissing my cheek.

"Both." I reply. We look into each other's eyes and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely relaxed.

It's done. This case, this whole mess, is all done.

"So I'm guessing you're alright?" John asks, holding a helping hand out to his best friend.

"I've felt better." Sherlock mumbles, grabbing John's hand and slowly rising to stand, "She kneed me pretty hard in the stomach, though."

"She took kick boxing for 7 years," I add in, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist so that he can lean on me, "You could say she was prepared."

Sherlock nods and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asks, giving me a genuinely worried look.

"Yeah," I say with a heavy sigh, "I'm…I'm okay."

"You sure?" John asks, "Because, this was a bit of a roller coaster for you."

"I know and I'm okay." I say, "Honest. I just…I just want to go home."

"Right," John says with an affirmative nod, "Besides, idiot features here needs to get back into bed."

"No I don't, and I'm not an idiot." Sherlock whines like a child as we enter the apartment, "I'm perfectly…perfectly…" he stops walking and puts a hand on his forehead, "John, I'm dizzy."

"Told you so." John says, "Elfie, help me get him to the couch. He needs to catch his breath." We quickly guide Sherlock to the couch and sit him upright.

"God, I'm tired." He groans, resting his head back and draping an arm over his eyes.

"I told you not to run up those stairs," John scolds, going to the kitchen for water.

"What was I suppose to do?" Sherlock argues, "Wait for the lift? No, that would have been stupid."

"How long were you two downstairs?" I ask, sitting down beside Sherlock, "In fact, how the hell did you two get here so quickly."

"Sherlock waited a few minutes after you and Lestrade had left, then told me to grab his coat." John explains, handing Sherlock the glass of water, "We took a cab here and met up with Lestrade. Sherlock said that we had to follow you up instead of just wait for you to bring Hattie down. So three of us took the stairs up to this floor, waited in the stairwell then…well, here we are. I would have protested but you know Sherlock: Stubborn."

"But how?" I ask in disbelief, "How could you possibly have gotten in here?"

"Sherlock had a key," John says.

"How? There is only two keys made for this apartment: Hattie's and-" I stop short as Sherlock pulls out a small key from his coat pocket and holds up in my face. It's my old apartment key. I furrow my brow in confusion and check my pockets to be sure it is in fact my key.

"But…I had when I left." I say, "I grabbed it out of my bag, talked to you, then-" I quickly realize what he'd done. "You bastard, you pick pocketed me." I say, lightly hitting Sherlock in the arm.

Sherlock laughs to himself and stuffs the key back in his pocket; "Did you really think I'd let you do this alone?" he says, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back to against his body. I look at him in disbelief and shake my head.

"God, what have I gotten myself into?" I say, leaning back against Sherlock. Sherlock smiles and places a soft kiss on the top of my head. He then looks over at John and gives him a small nod. John smiles at him and then at me.

"I'm going to hail us a cab," he says, heading out the door, "you two need some…alone time."

"What does that mean?" I ask with a laugh. John just shrugs and gives Sherlock an affirmative nod.

"You going to be alright for a few minutes?" he asks and Sherlock nods.

Okay, something's up.

"What's going on?" I ask, facing Sherlock.

"Nothing," he says, closing his eyes, "I need to rest."

"Hey, wait. Sherlock, don't be like that." I say, playfully poking his chest, "What was with the secret nodding code just now?"

"I asked John about something on the cab ride over here and he just now gave me his answer." Sherlock replies, "It's hardly a code, darling."

"Well, what did you ask him about?"

"I asked him if today would be the correct time to ask you to marry me."

My world freezes.

Did he just…is he asking…is this happening right now?

Feeling my body tense up, Sherlock opens his eyes and sits up straight. He takes both my hands into his and looks deeply into my eyes: "Elfie, you know that I've intending on spending the rest of my life with you." He says, "I understand that marriage doesn't need to be a key element in making that happen, but… In these past few days, I have had the pleasure of watching you grow and become an even stronger woman than when I first met you. I have fallen more in love with you and nothing would make me happier then being able to call you my wife."

"Sh-sherlock, is this really…I-I mean, are you sure you want…" I try to find something to say, but words are failing me at the moment.

"I spoke with your mother about the whole matter after you had left with Lestrade." He goes on, "She has given us her blessing, surprisingly. Elfie, I know that you have gone through so much today and I have no right to put this sort of pressure on you…but I want you to know, that it would be my honor to have you as my wife. If you'll have me."

My eyes glisten with tears as I cup his face in my hands: "Yes." I say, with a smile, "I'll have you."

Sherlock's face lightens up and a sort of childish quality comes to his eyes. "Are you…are you certain?" he asks and I can't help but pull his face in close to mine and lock my lips with his. He kisses me back, but quickly pulls back.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I…I don't have a ring." He says, running a hand through his curls, "That's what people do isn't it? I'm suppose to give you an engagement ring when I ask you…Damn!"

"Sherlock," I say, setting a comforting hand on his cheek, "it's fine."

"No, it's not. I'm going to do this the right way," he quickly rises from the couch and takes both my hands into his. His gaze becomes so soft and beautiful that I can't help but get butterflies in my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see John leaning in the doorway, a proud smile on his face. Sherlock doesn't notice: his eyes are fixed on me.

"Elfie Marie Stegerson," he says, his normally booming baritone voice is now soft and gentle. Slowly, Sherlock sinks down to one knee: "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck, "Good God, yes!" Sherlock quickly grabs my waist and pulls me in for the passionate kiss we have ever exchanged.

_**Ta dah! It happened!  
**_

_**I must be frank: I wasn't going to have him propose until my next story, but since you guys took such a liking to the idea, I decided to throw it in there. Hope you enjoyed it!**_

_**And the case is done! Yay!**_

_**There will be one more chapter (an epilogue really) that I'll post tomorrow and that will lead into my next story, which is already in the works. I'm excited for it and I hope you guys will be too.**_

_**This was just an idea I had and I'm very glad to hear how much people are enjoying it. Thanks as always!**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's canon.**_

_**Much Love and Many Thanks.**_


	23. Chapter 23: Epilogue

_Epilogue: Two months later._

I'm running late.

I promised him I'd be there when it started but I didn't get off work as early as I had hoped.

Stupid lectures.

Flipping off my light, I run out of my office, down the museum steps and franticly slip on my white heels. I wave down a taxi and, fortunately, one spots me and pulls up to the curb in a matter of seconds. I swing open the door and climb inside being careful not to wrinkle my navy blue cocktail skirt.

"Where to?" the driver asks,

"Here's the address. Quick as you can please." I practically spit out, handing him the white calling card from my coat pocket. He looks at the card then we get underway.

I franticly check my make-up in my compact mirror. Have I put too much on? Is he going to think I'm over dressed? God, I hope I'm not too late. I don't want to miss this. Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I quickly pull it out and check the text:

'_Paperwork has gone through: next weekend, Cross-Keys Inn. Tell Sherlock–MH'_

A large smile grows across my face and I start to fiddle with the amethyst and diamond ring on my left ring finger.

Next weekend, it's going to happen next weekend.

After two months of waiting, I'm finally going to become Mrs. Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

We didn't want to do a big wedding, nor did we want to elope. We wanted something simple and quick and then have an entire week to ourselves. Also with Sherlock's newfound fame, the press is very keen to dig into his personal life. We've done very well in keeping the engagement under the radar, but the press does know that I exist. They call me just "the girlfriend." I don't even think the papers know my name. Not that it really matters.

Sherlock picked out the place to hold the wedding ceremony and was able to make all the arrangements without attracting any unwanted attention. Of course, Mycroft helped with the paperwork part of it all: it pays to have a relative in the British government sometimes. It will be small ceremony with only a few guests: Mycroft (only because I told Sherlock he had to invite him), John, Mrs. Hudson, my mother and Lestrade.

True, part of me is saddened by the fact Hattie won't be there. She may have betrayed me but that doesn't mean I've forgotten the good times we shared. She was after all my best friend. I won't have a maid of honor because no one else can fill the position; it just doesn't feel right.

"Here we are, miss." The cabbie says, pulling up to the curb of the fancy hotel. I quickly pay him and sprint inside the building. I'm 15 minutes late now but fortunately traffic wasn't too bad today. I follow the string of signs to a large ballroom and quietly tiptoe inside.

The hoard of press is sitting in their chairs facing a small podium where a short man, dressed in a very nice suit, is finishing up his thank you speech. I decide to stay by the door until the man is finished talking. I lean against the archway and wait for my moment to slip into the crowd. To the right of the speaker stand Sherlock and John both dressed rather sharply. John looks humbled and gracious for the man's words. Sherlock looks bored.

I let out a small giggle, but quickly cover my mouth in fear that someone may have heard me. Sherlock snaps out of his boredom for a moment and turns his gaze in my direction: of course, he heard me. A small smile grows across his face and he gives me a quick wink. I blush a bright pink and give him a small wave.

"Sorry I'm late." I mouth to him and he just shakes his head slightly.

"It's fine." He mouths back. John gives him a nudge as if to tell him to shut up but Sherlock just rolls his eyes in annoyance.

"…Mr. Sherlock Holmes." The man at the podium finishes and the crowd politely claps. I do as well feeling immensely proud of my love. This gathering of the press is for him: a sort of honoring for his genius. He's found a rare item, yet again, and in turn has wowed the world with his brains. I can't help but smile as the man offers Sherlock a small package. Sherlock looks at it, says something snarky that John has to apologize for, then reluctantly takes the gift from the man.

'_He such a way with people,'_ I say to myself with a roll of my eyes.

After making his cordial rounds with the press, Sherlock makes his way to the doorway to see me. "The man gave me cufflinks," he says, tossing me the small package, "have you ever seen me where cufflinks?"

"Did you at least say thank you?" I ask, looking at the remarkable diamond cufflinks.

"Of course,"

"Before or after John had told you to?"

"…After."

I give off a light laugh and place his gift in my purse. "You really are something else, Mr. Holmes," I tease, getting so close to him that our toes are touching.

"Does that bother you?" he asks in a soft whisper, looking deeply into my eyes.

"No, not at all." I reply, stroking his cheek, "I wouldn't want you any other way." He smiles and holds my hand in place on his face.

"The cameras will see." He whispers, placing a soft kiss on the heel of my palm.

"I don't care." I reply and we lean in close to give each other a soft kiss on the lips. For a moment we forget about the press and deepen our kiss even more, wrapping our arms around each other. Fortunately, John is there to catch us.

"I can see the headline now," he jokes, nudging Sherlock in the side, "_'Sherlock Holmes: Sorry Ladies, He's taken'._"

Sherlock lets out an annoyed groan as our lips part: "Honestly, John," he says, "You make me go through these horrible press conferences. The least you could do let me have a moment with Elfie."

"I don't make you do anything." John replies, "Not my fault the press find you interesting."

"Yes it is, you write the blog." Sherlock snaps back.

"Alright girls, take it easy." I say, stepping between them, "Let's just move on."

"Look! There she is! The girlfriend!" a voice calls out and almost immediately there are flashes of light going off in all directions around me. John quickly goes into protective mode and pushes the eager reporters back. Immediately, Sherlock wraps an arm around me and pulls me away from the crowd. After a few minutes of craziness, the reporters and camera people are rushed out of the room, leaving Sherlock and myself alone.

"Geez," I breathe out, running my hands through my hair, "That's annoying."

"You have no idea," Sherlock replies, taking me by the hand, "All this attention is annoying, to say the least. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." I say, walking over to where the short well-dressed man was standing. Beside the podium is the item Sherlock was being honored for finding. A painting: an apparently rare painting.

"So," Sherlock says, noticing my interest in it, "tell me, Madame historian, what do you think?"

"It's beautiful," I reply, "One of a kind."

"I was hoping you'd go a bit more in-depth, Elfie." He says, giving me a sort of teaching gaze. I furrow my brow in confusion, but then I understand. He wants me to deduce. He's been trying to get me to do that more often now: training my brain to be as quick and sharp as his. I've told him that it simply cant' be done, but he's stubborn, of course.

"Oh, Sherlock, come on." I whine, "Do we have to do this right now? I'm going to embarrass myself."

"No you won't, nobody else is here." He says, placing his hands behind his back, "Besides, we've got a few minutes until we're in the clear to leave. Now come along, tell me what you think."

Reluctantly I roll my eyes and gaze at the item: "Okay, so um, it's an original painting…water-color…Turner…Early 1800s by the looks of it."

"Good, good," Sherlock coaches, circling me in almost a taunting way, "What else?"

"Is there something else?"

"Always," Sherlock replies with a smirk, "first rule of deduction: there is always more than meets the eye."

I furrow my brow and really look at the painting: "I…I've got nothing." I say, "sorry." Sherlock chuckles and comes up from behind me, gently wrapping his arms around my waist.

"You see that mark in the upper right hand corner?" he whispers in my ear. I squint my eyes and notice the slight discoloration of the corner.

"What of it?" I ask, genuinely interested.

"That's how I knew this was the real thing," he says, placing his chin on my shoulder, "It was stolen from its place of creation and never heard of again. The art museum in Bedford only had a replica on display, in hopes of one day finding the original. That is until a man here in London had purchased it not too long ago off the black market. Honestly, smugglers should learn to destroy any sort of evidence that could lead me back to them. You would think they'd learn from their mistakes."

"Huh," I say, taken back as always by Sherlock's intellect, "I didn't think there was a black market for historical artifacts."

"Well, that's what brought us together was it not?" he says, kissing my cheek. I turn my head so that I can face Sherlock properly. He smiles at me and I smile back; those sea-foam eyes still as mesmerizing as ever.

He's right, in a way. If it weren't for that stolen jade hairpin that he found a year ago, Sherlock would never have walked into my office and I would've never fallen so deeply in love with this great man. It's not a typical 'girl meets boy' story, but nothing is typical with Sherlock.

"Mycroft text me," I say, intertwining my hands' with Sherlock's.

"And what did he want?" he asks, "Nothing ridiculous, I hope."

"He wanted me to tell you that the paperwork's gone through." I go on with a smile. Sherlock's eyes brighten up and his mouth curves up into a half mouth smirk.

"I take it then that you are prepared for next weekend?" he asks.

"Prepared as I'll ever be." I reply, smiling back at him, "Are you?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" he says with his signature arrogant tone, "I'm not afraid of marriage. Besides, the time away from London will do us both good."

"Oh?" I ask a bit surprised.

"Yes, believe it or not I'm in much need of a…break of sorts." He says, "I need to get out of London for a bit: no press conferences, no cameras…" he pauses for a moment and smiles at me, "I just want to be with you."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you actually happy to not be taking on a case?" I ask in slight disbelief.

He chuckles and places a soft kiss on my cheek: "Only because I'm going to make you my wife." He whispers, "I love you."

"I love you too."

Slowly we lean in close and allow our lips to lock in a deep kiss. The moment is suddenly gone when we hear the door creak open. We both quickly turn around to see John, looking very distressed, entering the room.

"The crowd's died down," he says, "but there's still some people begging for pictures. I told them…" He stops for a moment and points a finger back and forth between Sherlock and I, "have I interrupted something?"

"As always, John, your timing is impeccable." Sherlock grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Come on, there's a back door." John and I exchange a quick look and a shrug then follow him the employee entrance door.

"So, the blonde reporter wasn't interested in you, John? I'm sorry." I ask while we walk. Sherlock smirks at me, completely aware of what I had deduced.

John on the other hand looks at me in utter surprise: "How did you know I was flirting with anyone?" he asks,

"You were staring at her when you I walked in. You gave her that slight head nod of yours that you do when you flirt." I explain.

"Oh great," John groans, "Now there's two of you. I hope your proud, Sherlock." Sherlock lets out a deep laugh and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"I am, John," he says, placing a kiss on my head, "I most certainly am."

After we finally make it out of the hotel, luckily unnoticed, the three of us climb into a cab and head home to Baker Street. Once at the flat, John retreats to his room, exhausted from both dealing with reporters and working at the clinic this morning. I plop down on the couch, while Sherlock goes to his violin.

"So the Cross-Keys Inn," I say, kicking off my heels, "why did you pick there?"

"The owners owe me a favor," Sherlock replies, cleaning his bow.

"Oh, helped them out with something?" I ask, leaning back against the pillows.

"In a way," He says, "I helped put down their dog."

"Oh! That's, um, different." I say, "What was wrong with the dog?" Sherlock just gives me a sideways glance and it clicks in my brain; "Ooo, it was _that_ dog."

"Yes, _that_ dog." Sherlock sighs, going to his usual spot at the window with his instrument.

"_'The Hounds of the Baskerville,'_" I say, "That's my favorite case, by the way. Clever title too."

"Yes, thank God for John and his clever titles," Sherlock says, sarcastically. He then begins to play a melodic tune: an original by the sounds of it. I lay down on the couch, folding my hands behind my head and close my eyes. Life is finally the way I want it to be. Everything is perfect. Everything is right.

"Surely, John will write up about this rare Turner painting." I say, "The press is all over it, so it's only natural that he should put it on the blog."

"Maybe," Sherlock replies, writing down notes and not really listening to me. It's fine; he's in the world of his music right now.

"What will John call this case?" I ask with a yawn,

"I have no idea, darling." He replies, with a smile, "You look exhausted. Go get some rest."

"I want to hear you play," I say, turning onto my side, "Please?" Sherlock smiles at me and readjusts his hold on his violin.

"Maybe John will name it after the painting." He says, turning to the window, "He likes to make those sort of play on word type titles. Dull."

I chuckle slightly and let out another yawn: "What is it called, anyway? That painting? I've never seen it in any of my books."

Sherlock and brings the bow up to the correct position and continues to play his soft tune: "Reichenbach" he says, "The Falls of Reichenbach."

_**The End.**_

_**So there you have it, guys! My first fanfic is done and I am very happy with the response it received. Yes, my next story with these two will be a Reichenbach one (dun, dun, DUN). I'm in the process of writing it and will put up the first chapter when it's ready.**_

_**As for the prequel, I'll just keep updating it until I feel it's done. There's no distinct storyline there, its just fluff **___

_**Thank you all so very much for coming along on this crazy ride and giving me feed back. It's you guys who kept me writing and I hope I please you guys some more with my other stories. You are the best and are absolutely lovely.**_

_**XOXOXOX**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


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